


The Listless Lieutenant

by luminality



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Comedy, Fluff, Getting Together (with help from friends), Humor, M/M, POV Party (as always), emotionally constipated detectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24418717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminality/pseuds/luminality
Summary: The C-Wing notices that Jean looks sadder than usual. Harry and Kim take it upon themselves to find out why, and end up doing much more than that.(Inspired by the shenanigans of the DE Twitter roleplay accounts.)
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi, Trant Heidelstam/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 13
Kudos: 86





	1. The Set Up

“Hey, Kim.” Harry frowns. “Is it just me, or does Jean look sad?”

Kim doesn’t look up from the report that he’s typing. “Sadder than usual?”

Harry fiddles with a pencil and balances his chair on its hind legs. “Yeah. I mean, he’s grumpy all the time, but there’s just something...off about him today."

Nodding absently, Kim glances at his notebook and transfers some more details into his report. After all, if he stopped every time his partner offered some astute observation about a random topic, he'd only have typed down two sentences over the past hour.

“Why don’t you ask him after you finish that case summary?” He takes out the completed page from his typewriter and puts a fresh sheet in its place. “You know, the summary that you’re supposed to be writing right now. At your own desk.”

To his dismay, Harry refuses to get the hint. “It can wait,” his partner says, still firmly occupying around half of Kim’s table while his own desk stands empty and forlorn behind them. “Speculating about my colleague’s emotional well-being is more important than a pile of paperwork—”

Kim carefully eases the toe of his boot under the front legs of his partner’s chair.

“—He’s practically my half-brother! I can’t just let him wallow in his own misery—”

Then, while Harry's busy declaring his brotherly concern for Jean to the world, Kim nudges up Harry's chair with his foot. 

A yelp.

A crash.

A groan.

“Kiiiiim," Harry whines. "I broke my spiiiiiine."

Satisfied with his petty vengeance, Kim resumes his work with a smile on his face. “Your spine is fine, Detective,” he says. “I’m more worried about your dignity.”

Still groaning, Harry braces himself against Kim’s desk and staggers up from the floor. “Ow,” he winces, rubbing his lower back. “Nope. Definitely my spine. I can’t walk anymore, so I guess I’ll have to stay at your desk forever...”

Kim’s about to volunteer to move to Harry’s desk so that his partner can stay here forever without him when he spots a flash of red from the corner of his eye...

“Good morning, Sergeant,” he says, just as Sergeant Chester McLaine saunters up to them. "Can we help you with something?"

“Morning, Kim! Morning, Mullen! Sorry to interrupt your work,” Chester warily eyes Harry’s toppled chair. “But is it just me, or is the Boss grumpier than usual today?”

Harry instantly perks up and shoots Kim a "told-you-so" look, which Kim dutifully ignores. Then, making a miraculous recovery from his spinal injury, Harry bends down to pick up his chair and straddles it like a 43-year-old delinquent. “You’ve noticed it too, McLaine?”

Apparently, Chester’s planning on loitering around Kim’s desk for a while, because he drags a chair over and plops himself into it too. “Heck, yeah. Mack and I bumped into him in the lobby this morning, and you know what he said to us?”

“Good morning?” Kim says.

“Get out of my way, you idiots?” Harry suggests.

“Nope.” Chester lowers his voice to a whisper. “He said _nothing_.”

Harry gasps. “ _No way_.”

“ _Yes_ way. He just walked past us like _whooooosh_ ," Chester slides his hand through the air. "It was creepy. Like he didn’t even see us at all—”

Kim clears his throat to interrupt their impromptu storytime (complete with actions and sound effects). “Maybe he just has a lot on his mind,” he says, eager to wrap this all up and get back to his report. “We’re all buried under _a mountain of cases_ right now, so he must be pretty stressed...” 

But his thinly veiled reminder just bounces off Harry and Chester’s thick skulls . “Okay, that might be true. But think about it, Kitsuragi.” Chester says. “Has the Boss _ever_ passed you by without saying anything?”

Kim pauses. Come to think of it, Jean’s always acknowledged him whenever they saw each other, usually with a curt, “Kitsuragi,” a formal “Lieutenant,” or a dry, “Good luck with the shitkid today.” In fact, Jean seemed to greet everyone—even Harry, who just got more...colorful words than everyone else.

Still, it didn’t seem like an emergency if Jean failed to greet people this morning.

“No,” Kim concedes. “But I don’t think it’s really worth worrying about—”

But Chester shushes him before he can finish his sentence. “The Boss is coming out!” he gasps before ducking in front of Kim’s desk like a kid trying to hide from the headmaster.

As one, Kim and Harry turn around to look at the door to Jean’s office, which swings open to reveal— 

Harry grins. 

“Relax, Chester. It’s just Judit.” 

Popping out of Kim's desk like a coiled spring, Chester smooths his hair back and brushes the dust off his knees. “Yo, Judit!” he says, waving her over. “Come here, quick!”

Patrol Officer Judit Minot blinks in surprise. But after shooting a quick look over her shoulder, she closes the door to Jean’s office and jogs towards them.

“Good morning everyone." She smiles politely before looking at Chester. “Shouldn’t you be at your desk, Chester? Vic won’t be happy if he sees you here…”

Chester scratches his head sheepishly. “I’ll go back in a bit, I promise. But hey,” he says, steering the conversation away from work and back into juicy gossip. “Did you notice anything off with the Boss just now? He totally brushed Mack and I off this morning, which is pretty weird, if you ask me.”

A frown creases Judit’s brow. “He ignored you?”

“Totally. Mullen here sensed something off about him too--”

“Using my uncanny sense of intuition, of course," Harry says smugly.

Everyone ignores him. 

“Well,” Judit sighs. “To be honest, I’m worried about Vic myself…”

After patting his dejected partner's shoulder, Kim gives Judit a look of concern. He can brush off Harry and Chester’s worries as the product of idle minds, but if _Judit_ was worried, then there might be something wrong with Jean after all… 

“Why? Has he been ignoring you too?” he asks her.

Judit shakes her head. “It’s not that. I made his coffee for him this morning, as usual, and he...erm.” She shifts her feet uneasily. “He asked me to put five teaspoons of sugar in it.”

Harry and Chester gasp in horror, and Kim’s tempted to gasp along with them, if only because adding that much sugar to your coffee is a truly horrifying way to murder a perfectly good beverage. 

He must have had a confused look on his face, because Harry quickly gives him some much-needed context. “You can tell Jean’s mood by how much sugar he takes with his coffee each day,” his partner says. “No sugar means he’s doing great. One teaspoon means he’s still doing okay, but things could be better. Two teaspoons is meh.” He see-saws his hand in the universal gesture for, “Meh.” “Three means—”

“Three means that he’s getting a migraine from Mullen over here, so we should start saying our prayers and get ready to dodge some paperweights.”

Harry glares Chester. “And four means that he’s about to murder someone slowly with a pencil. But I’ve never—well, at least in the three months that I’ve known him again—heard of Jean taking _five_.” 

“It’s never gotten this bad before, Sir.” Judit says quietly. “He didn’t even drink the coffee when I put it on his table—”

Oh thank Dolores, Kim thinks to himself.

“—He just...stared at it." Judit frowns in confusion. "He still was, when I left his office. He’s probably still doing it right now...”

As they all take in that starkly depressing image, Sergeant Mack Torson spots their little pow-wow and lumbers over to them like a grinning mountain. “What’s going on here?” he rumbles, parking himself in between Chester and Judit. “You guys plotting to overthrow the Moralintern or something?”

“We’re talking about the Boss, Torso,” Chester replies in a subdued voice. “And it’s even worse than we thought. Judit just told us that he had five fucking teaspoons of sugar with his coffee this morning.”

Mack lets out a low whistle. “You should probably start running, Mullen. Pretty sure Vic’s gonna throw you off the building today, if he’s feeling this bad.”

Harry winces. “Kim won’t let that happen,” he insists. “Right, Kim?”

Kim nods. “Of course I won’t. But I might change my mind and give him a hand, if you don’t finish that case summary by the end of the day.”

Harry flinches in terror, and Kim wishes he’d thought of threatening his partner's life sooner.

“Oh, by the way,” Mack says with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “Guess who the Boss ignored this morning aside from Chester and me?”

“Captain Pryce?” Judit says nervously.

“No. Even worse,” Mack cups his hand around his mouth and stage whispers. “He ignored _Trant_.”

Another collective gasp erupts from their little circle.

“ _Dios Mio,_ ” Harry crosses himself.

“That’s terrible,” Judit murmurs.

“We’re all dead,” Chester groans.

And if Kim wasn’t worried about Jean before, he sure as hell is worried about the Jean now. Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam was one of the few people in their squad who genuinely got along with Jean. They ate lunch together, sat beside each other during their meetings, and when Trant wasn’t around, Jean’s mood was usually—based on Kim’s newly acquired knowledge—at around three teaspoons of sugar.

So if Jean had ignored Trant, things must be very, very bad indeed.

Suddenly, Harry slams his hand on Kim’s desk.

“That’s it,” he growls. “It’s time to get to the bottom of thi—”

Kim clears his throat.

When Harry looks at him, Kim directs his gaze down to the pages of his report, which are now scattered all over the floor thanks to Harry’s dramatic gesture.

“Oh. Uh. Sorry.”

Once all thirty pages have been picked up, rearranged by page number, and stacked neatly on top of Kim’s desk again, Harry thanks his colleagues for their help, clears his throat, and restarts his spiel.

“That’s it,” he growls again, smacking his hand against—

Kim arches his eyebrow.

—his own thigh. “It’s time to get to the bottom of this. We can’t just let Jean suffer alone in silence!”

Chester frowns. “Uh. Actually, we can.”

Mack nods. “Yeah. He suffers in silence all the time. Probably prefers it that way. He hates dragging people into his personal shit.”

Harry visibly deflates. “Come on, guys. Aren’t you even a little bit curious about why he’s so down?”

“I am, Sir,” Judit admits. “Though I don’t know how to go about it. We can’t just march into his office and ask him...”

“Oh, oh!” Chester exclaims. “We should make this a case! Like, with a name and all!”

“Wait a minute." Kim holds up his hand. "I don’t think Lt. Vicquemare will appreciate—”

But his lone voice of reason is immediately buried under a flurry of suggestions. 

“THE MOROSE MAN!”

“THE BUMMED OUT BOSS!”

“THE SADDEST COP IN SAINT-SAËNS!”

“Hey, that’s me!” Harry says indignantly.

“Oh, sorry,” Chester mutters.

“What about, ‘THE LISTLESS LIEUTENANT’?” Judith proposes.

“Ooooooo,” Harry, Mack, and Chester intone like a trio of awed kindergarteners while Kim shoots her a betrayed look.

“Nice one, Minot!”

“Atta girl!”

“That’s a great case name!”

Judit flushes under their praise.

“Alright, now that we have a case name, we just need to assign it to someone!” Harry heartily slaps Kim’s shoulder. “Kim and I volunteer!”

“No, we don’t." Kim gently removes Harry’s hand from his shoulder. 

But instead of giving up, Harry drops down on one knee beside Kim’s chair. “Come on, partner,” he pleads, clasping his hands to his chest like a jilted lover. “My life’s on the line here! Remember what Mack said? Jean’ll throw me off the roof if we don’t figure out what’s going on!”

Sighing at his partner’s antics, Kim’s about to ask Harry to stand up when Judit betrays him a second time.

“You should take the case Lieutenant,” she says, in a quiet but firm voice. “You and Detective du Bois have the best chances of finding out what’s bothering Vic.”

“Yeah. The three of us.” Chester gestures to himself, Mack, and Judit, “are his minions, so he’ll gut us alive if we even try to act all chummy towards him—”

Suddenly, Mack jabs his elbow into Chester’s ribs. “Pipe down, guys. Trant’s coming."

Everyone instantly pretends to be very interested about the floor—except for Chester, who’s doubled over in agony clutching his presumably shattered ribcage.

A few seconds later, Trant strides over to Kim’s desk like a walking ray of sunshine. “Top of the morning, everyone!” he chirps with a brilliant smile. “I see that you’re all engaged in a customary session of workplace gossip. Would you mind if I joined in?”

“Trant!” Harry plasters a grin on his face. “Sure, we don’t mind. We, uh, we were just talking about— ” He desperately glances around for back-up, but unfortunately for him, it’s Mack who comes to his rescue.

“We’re talking about how depressed the Boss looks this morning,” Mack says. 

Everyone gapes at him in disbelief. 

“What?” he shrugs. “It’s not like he doesn’t know.”

Grudgingly conceding his point, everyone turns to look back at Trant. 

“Ah. I...I see.” Trant’s smile falters and slowly morphs into a frown. “I’ve been wondering about why he’s been acting so distant towards me too, actually...”

“It’s alright, Mr. Heidelstam,” Judit says. “The lieutenant double-yefreitor and Lt. Kitsuragi just agreed to help us figure out what’s going on.” She shoots a hopeful look at Harry and Kim. “Right, Detectives?”

“We sure did!” Harry says with a grin.

Kim doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he chews the inside of his cheek and glances at his unfinished report. He wasn’t kidding when he said that they were buried under a mountain of cases, so he can’t really afford to waste his time on—

He glances at his colleagues.

Harry’s pressing his hands together and giving him puppy-dog eyes.

Judit’s biting her lip nervously.

Mack’s nodding at him while mouthing the word, “YES.”

Chester’s groaning in pain.

But of all people, it’s Trant who puts the final nail on Kim’s coffin. “Really? That would be excellent!” he says with a relieved smile. “As soon as you find out what’s ailing Lt. Vicquemare, then we can devise an appropriate intervention to alleviate both his misery and our collective distress!”

Everyone takes a second to process what Trant just said.

“Yeah.” Mack slowly nods and crosses his arms. “Yeah, that.”

And while Kim’s willpower is strong enough to withstand this insane amount of peer pressure, he decides that only a true bastard would say no to these people. 

He sighs. 

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll do our best.”

General jubilation breaks out at his assent. Mack does a fist pump, Judith’s shoulders sag with relief, Chester lets out a pained, “Woohoo,” and Trant’s smile returns to its full glory.

Harry, on the other hand, whoops with delight and pulls him into a side-hug that happens so fast that it’s literally over in the blink of an eye.

Thankfully, no one seems to notice the hug, or Kim’s burning ears. 

“Alright,” Mack says, hefting a semi-conscious Chester onto his shoulder. “Gotta bring McLaine to the lazareth now before he starts spewing out blood. Good luck, you two."

“I have to head back to work now too,” Judit says, to Kim’s envy. “But let me know if you need anything, and I’ll be more than happy to help, Detectives.”

Harry gives them a mock salute. “Thanks, everyone. We won’t let you down.”

“It’s nothing, Lieutenant-yefreitor.” Judit smiles. “We all have to watch out for each other around here.”

And that, more than anything, makes Kim realize that he should have accepted this case much, much sooner.

As Mack, Chester, and Judit go their respective ways, Kim notices Trant still lingering by his desk. There’s a troubled look on the special consultant’s face, but before Kim can ask him what’s wrong, Harry beats him to it. 

“Something on your mind, Trant?” 

Trant snaps out of his thoughts. “Oh, it’s nothing detectives,” he says with a rueful smile. “It’s just that...well.” His face falls. “I think I may have something to do with Jean’s foul mood.”

Harry and Kim glance at each other. The notion that Trant could have upset anyone, even a grumpy bastard like Jean, was like finding out that puppies caused cancer.

“And what makes you say that, Special Consultant?” Kim asks.

“You didn’t smack him on the head with your Lomanthang sticks yesterday, did you?” Harry quips, and Kim does a Mack and jabs his elbow into his partner’s ribs. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have the same effect, since Kim’s elbow isn’t as massive as Mack’s, and Harry’s ribs had more padding than Chester’s.

Trant chuckles. “If only it were as straightforward as that. In fact, I’m not even sure if I really have something to do with it. It’s just an...educated guess. A hypothesis, if you may.”

“That’s fine. You uh,” Harry winces and rubs his sore ribs, probably more out of courtesy to Kim rather than any actual pain. “You wanna talk about it?”

The special consultant looks like he wants to say yes, but before he can do so, he spots something behind them and freezes.

Harry and Kim turn around at the same time.

And that’s when they see Jean.

He's standing in the doorway to his office, with one hand still perched on his doorknob. It’s the first time that Kim’s seen him today, and Kim has to admit that Jean looks...sad. His face is long, drawn, and pale, and there are dark bags under his eyes. He’s staring at them with a stricken look on his face— 

No, Kim corrects himself, as he follows the trajectory of the satellite officer’s gaze. Jean isn’t staring at them.

He’s staring at Trant.

When Kim glances over at Trant, the special consultant seems just as stunned to see Jean as Jean is to see him.

As their two colleagues stare at each other, Harry and Kim exchange uneasy looks.

 _What’s going on here?_ Harry conveys with his furrowed eyebrows.

Kim shrugs helplessly. _No idea._

Then, after a few more seconds of excruciating silence, Trant clears his throat.

“Jean,” he says with a nervous smile. “It’s good to see—”

They all jump when Jean slams his door shut.

And when Kim look up at Trant’s face, his heart breaks a little.

“Mr. Heidelstam, are you—”

Trant flinches.

“I...er. I’ll be at my desk if you need anything,” he says without meeting their eyes.

As they watch Trant trudge away, Kim wonders what they’ve gotten themselves into.

“What the fuck was that about?” Harry asks quietly.

Kim sighs. “That’s what we’re supposed to find out, right?” 

They stay silent for a few moments.

“I’ll take Jean,” Kim says eventually.

Harry nods. “I’ll take Trant.”

And with that, the case was on.

  
  



	2. The Investigation Begins

Harry and Kim start their investigation at 16:30.

“You sure you want to take on Jean?” Harry asks while shrugging on his jacket. “Can't help but feel like I'm getting the long end of the stick here...”

As far as Kim's concerned, they’re both getting equally long ends of the stick. While he enjoys Mr. Heidelstam’s company, he still has a hard time whenever the special consultant throws out a random wall of trivia in the middle of a conversation, which Harry doesn't seem to mind at all. As for Jean, Kim’s pretty confident that he can make the man talk—or at the very least, not get himself thrown off the roof like his partner would.

“I can handle him,” Kim drapes a plastic cover onto his typewriter, which—to his dismay—he hasn’t been able to touch again since this morning. “I have a feeling that he’s much less likely to throw me off the building compared to you.”

Harry flinches. “Good point. How’re you planning on getting him to talk, though?”

As they start walking towards the lifts, Kim reaches into his pocket and fingers the box of cigarettes nestled in its depths...

“I have my ways,” he says cryptically. “What about you? How are you going to get Trant to talk?”

His partner laughs. “You kidding me? The real question is: How am I going to get Trant to stop talking?”

Now it’s Kim’s turn to acknowledge that Harry has a point. Trant seemed eager enough to talk about what happened between him and Jean, so Harry shouldn’t have any trouble getting his side of the story. If anything, Kim’s more worried about the fact that Harry and Trant are heading off to have a few drinks at the Hog’s Head, a local bar known for its cheap booze, quiet booths, and nightly brawls.

He'd been against it at first—Harry was a recovering alcoholic, after all, so going to a bar probably wasn’t going to do wonders for his sobriety. But then Harry defended the idea by saying that poor Trant looked like he badly needed a drink or two, and that the Hog’s Head was one of the few places in Jamrock where cops could get a drink without getting shivved by the locals.

“Don’t worry, Kim,” Harry had said with a winning smile. “All I have to do is to imagine you glaring at me while I’m ordering a drink, and voila!” He waved his hand in a dramatic flourish. “I shall end up ordering soda water instead.”

Kim still hadn’t been fully convinced by that, but he decided cut his partner some slack. If Harry wanted to get drunk tonight, that was his business, not Kim's. Besides, Trant would be there to make sure that Harry didn’t go overboard...

Still, Kim will probably drop by the Hog’s Head after his talk with Jean, just to check on how Harry and Trant were doing.

“You can have one beer tonight,” he had told Harry in a gracious act of generosity. “But if you have a hangover tomorrow morning, I’ll throw you off the roof myself.”

His partner had been so grateful that Kim barely managed to dodge the grubby hands that were about to pull him into another hug. 

“Well, this is my stop,” Harry says when they reach the elevator landing. “Do I get a kiss for good luck?”

Kim's ears heat up again. Harry’s been doing this more and more often lately—a playful quip here, a casual touch there. He's been able to shrug these off most of the time, but he’s finding it harder and harder to ignore his partner’s advances, especially when the other man took over half of his desk and their arms would accidentally brush against each other while they worked...

 _You could just kick him out from your desk, you know_ , a small, reasonable voice in Kim’s head points out.

Kim promptly dumps that suggestion. 

“No,” he says, arching an eyebrow at his leering partner. “You got the long end of the stick remember?”

To Kim’s surprise, his eyebrow fails to cower Harry into submission. “But I’m about to march into a den of sin and temptation, Kim!” Harry wails. “What if I fall back into my evil ways? What if my brain explodes from all the trivia that Trant’s going to throw at me? What if—”

Kim interrupts his partner’s word vomit with a firm pat on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, Detective. I’m sure you’ll be able to take care of yourself without me.”

 _...I hope_ , he silently adds. 

Harry pouts at him, and Kim successfully suppresses a fond smile.

“Okay,” Harry sighs. 

But just as Kim’s giving himself an Ace’s High for successfully rebuffing another one of Harry’s advances, his partner’s eyes suddenly begin to sparkle with mischief.

“By the way,” Harry says with a cheeky grin, “since _you_ got the short end of the stick...”

In the split-second that it takes Kim to realize what his partner’s about to do, Harry’s already stepped forward and leaned towards him—

DING!

Harry stops in his tracks.

Kim blinks.

They stare at each other for a beat.

Then, quickly regaining his composure, Kim clears his throat and lowers the hand that he’s raised to fend off his partner’s puckered lips.

“You’d better go, Detective,” he says, unsure of whether he’s relieved or disappointed by the lift’s arrival.

Harry just looks flat-out disappointed, but he finally gives up and steps into the elevator.

“Good luck, Detective,” Kim says with a small smile. 

Harry replies with a quick wink and a brilliant grin. “Good luck to you too, Lieutenant,” he says.

Then, the elevator doors slide shut, and Kim finds himself standing alone at the landing with the afterimage of Harry’s smile still lingering on his retinas...

He blinks and shakes his head a few times. _Focus, Kitsuragi_ , he tells himself. _It’s time to get to work._

With a quiet sigh, Kim checks his watch and notes that he still has plenty of time before his...unscheduled appointment with Jean. The Satellite Officer should still be in his office right now, staring unhappily at that dreadful cup of coffee that Judit had made for him this morning. Kim would be lying if he said that he wasn’t curious about the reason behind Jean’s despondency, but he’ll do his best to draw it out from his colleague as gently and respectfully as he can.

To the right of the elevators, there’s a nondescript metal door that leads the favorite smoking spot for the officers who work in the C-Wing—a rickety old emergency staircase that boasts an excellent view of Central Jamrock and its surrounding districts. Before Kim heads over there, he takes a quick look around to make sure that no one’s around to see him.

Then, with utmost discretion, he slips through the door and steps out into the mild, spring afternoon to have a smoke.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a small office a few meters away from the door that Kim just used, Satellite Officer Jean Vicquemare glares at the thick sheaf of paper in his hands.

When that doesn’t work, he glares at it some more.

Finally, he chucks the damn thing onto his desk and slumps into his chair with a long-suffering groan.

His concentration’s been absolute shit today. He’s just spent the past hour trying to make sense of that personnel report, but no matter how hard he stared, frowned, and glowered at it, the words just bounced off his brain like—like—

He sighs.

 _Well, fuck you too, figures of speech_ , he decides.

As if that weren’t enough, he even forgot about that lunch meeting that he was supposed to have with his minions, who—for some godforsaken reason—didn’t even send someone to remind him about it when he didn’t show up.

Jean can’t really blame them, though. Judit probably told them how much sugar he had in his coffee this morning, thereby scaring them shitless and making them fear for their pitiful little lives. But they didn’t need to be so afraid—If their meeting had actually pushed through, Jean would’ve just stared at them like a zombie. That, or he’d have kicked everyone out of the room so that he could sulk in peace. Either way, they would have gotten absolutely nothing done, so it was probably a good thing all around that Jean had forgotten about it

Heaving yet another sigh, he closes his eyes and massages his temples. He really shouldn’t have come to work today. He should’ve just stayed home and wallowed in his misery there, instead of dragging himself to the office and wallowing in his misery _here_ , where everyone could see him.

...Where Trant could see him.

A few seconds pass.

Then, Jean slowly pitches forward and smacks his forehead against his desk with a loud thunk.

He does it again (thunk).

And again (thunk).

And again (but this time, to mix things up, it comes out more like a “thump”).

When he finally decides to stop, he releases his third sigh in the past five minutes and mumbles a weary, “Fuck you, Vicquemare,” against the lacquered wood of his desk.

He’d been meaning to apologize to Trant for what happened yesterday. Really. That’s all he wanted to do today. But every time he stepped out of his office with the intention of heading towards Trant’s desk, his feet would gain a mind of their own and carry him in the opposite direction, which meant that he’s taken several trips to the photocopier today for no good reason at all. The worst part is that he doesn’t even know what he’s so fucking afraid of. He can’t be afraid of Trant—the man was far too kind to hold a grudge against anyone, even a selfish, cowardly bastard like Jean. He’s definitely not afraid of the precinct rumor mill, which has probably gotten wind of what happened yesterday and embellished it with a few choice details of their own. So what the fucking hell was it then? 

He rolls his head to the right and stares unhappily at the untouched mug of coffee on his table.

Then, before his exhausted mind could run through yesterday’s monumental fuck-up for the hundredth time, Jean decides to go out for a smoke.

He’s been a smoker ever since he joined the force—Being underpaid and overworked tended to push you into all sorts of unhealthy life choices, as Jean’s former partner could attest to. But he’s been trying to cut down on the number of sticks that he goes through each day, both for the sake of his health and to protect his ego. After all, there’s no fucking way that Jean’s going to lose to the goddamn shitkid, who, through some stupendous miracle, has reportedly managed to bring down his daily smoke from a half a pack to just one or two a day.

When he steps out of his office, Jean’s greeted by the welcome sight of a deserted C-Wing. On any other day, this would’ve made him lose his shit—Office hours officially ended at 16:30, but there’s an unspoken rule in the precinct that detectives are expected to stay until 17:00, just in case someone decided to commit a violent crime at 16:59. Not everyone followed this rule though. Being the slacker that he is, Chester usually skedaddled at exactly 16:30 (if not earlier), while everyone else fidgeted at their desks with their eyes fixed on the wall clock on top of the department entrance like schoolkids counting down until summer vacation.

But today...

Today, Jean’s too fucking sad and tired to care about whether his colleagues are slacking off.

As he makes his way through his colleagues’ empty desks, Jean finds himself glancing at one in particular—a desk whose contents he knows by heart: a row of books about forensic psychology, clamped between a pair of antler-shaped bookends; a miniature antique clock fashioned by Oranjese artisans that shows the time in three different isolas; a white, porcelain picture frame containing the photo of a smiling blonde man with blue eyes carrying his little son in his arms...

Clenching his fists, Jean looks away and walks faster. 

By the time he reaches the emergency exit door, he’s so keyed up that he almost kicks it off its rusty hinges. As the door bursts open with a clang, a gust of cold, spring air rushes forth to meet him, and Jean takes a deep, shuddering breath to get his shit together— 

“Hello, Satellite Officer.”

Jean jumps up and loses his—

“ _Holy fucking shit_!!!”

Meanwhile, from his perch on the staircase right beside the emergency exit, Lt. Kim Kitsuragi calmly exhales a plume of smoke.

“Out for a smoke?” the lieutenant asks nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just scare the hell out of Jean by popping up out of nowhere like a goddamn ghost.

As his pounding heart settles back into his chest, Jean releases the death grip that he has on the railing and glares at his colleague.

“No, I’m here to sharpen my pencils,” he says drily. “Of _course_ I’m out for a fucking smoke.”

Ever the cool customer, Kim takes Jean’s snarky comment in stride and extends a battered box of Astras towards him as a...peace offering? A friendly gesture? A silent apology?

Well, whatever it is, Jean’s never one to refuse a free smoke, so he takes a stick from the box anyway. 

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Kim gives him a curt nod.

In a deft, practiced motion, Jean flicks out his lighter and lights up. The nicotine hits his frazzled nerves like a heady wave of bliss, sweeping away the coiled tension in his muscles and the lingering uneasiness in his mind. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to live without this—he’s not strong enough to face this harsh, fucked-up world without numbing his senses every now and then—but he envies those who can walk away from it and never look back. Heck, Trant was able to quit pyrholidon, and he still— 

Jean catches himself and winces.

“Bit early for your smoke break isn’t it?” he asks Kim in a desperate attempt to steer his mind away from its favorite fixation.

Lucky for him, the lieutenant doesn’t seem to mind engaging in small talk right now. “I needed to clear my head. Someone was more...unruly today than usual.”

Since Jean knows _exactly_ who that someone is, he grins around his cigarette and gives Kim a look of sympathy. “Tough luck, Kitsuragi. But hey, at least he looked sober today.”

“He _was_ sober,” Kim confirms. “It’s been a while since he’s shown up to work drunk or high, actually.”

Jean lets that statement sink in for a moment. His knee-jerk reaction is, of course, cold, bitter skepticism. After three years of suffering under Harry’s erratic and abusive leadership, Jean seems to have lost the capacity to connect the word “sober” to his former partner. He could connect a lot of other words to Harry — “drunk,” “stoned,” “passed out,” “manic,” “delusional,” “depressed” for example—but “sober” is definitely not one of them.

But after a few seconds, the skepticism gradually melts into a strange, paradoxical mix of hope and envy. Hope, because even after all the suffering that his former partner’s put him through, he still can’t help but believe in Harry’s latent brilliance and dormant capacity for leadership, and there are few things that Jean wants to see more than Harry Du Bois having full possession of himself again. Envy, because despite putting up with all of Harry’s shit for three godforsaken years, Jean wasn’t the one who made Harry turn a new leaf—no, it was this quiet, unassuming lieutenant from the 57th who managed to wrangle his disco disaster of a partner into submission.

After just a fucking _week_ in Martinaise, no less.

Eventually, Jean chooses to get over himself and take Kim’s word for it. After all, Kim was Harry’s partner now, not him. So if Kim said that Harry’s been coming to work sober, then who was Jean to say otherwise?

 _You were his goddamn partner. **That’s** who you **were**_ , a tiny, bitter voice in Jean’s mind hisses to him.

Jean ignores it and takes a long, deep drag of his cigarette.

His next question wafts from his lips in a hazy cloud of smoke. “I’m guessing the shitkid’s gone home already?” 

Kim nods. “He left around thirty minutes ago. I had to stay behind to finish a report—”

“—that you weren’t able to work on because he kept interrupting you with astute observations about random things,” Jean finishes for him.

They glance at each other.

“Yes,” Kim says with a small smile. “Exactly.”

Thoroughly amused by their shared understanding, Jean gives him a roguish grin. “Hope you don’t mind me saying this, Kitsuragi. But I’m glad it’s you and not me.”

“I don’t really mind.” The lieutenant shrugs. “It’s like having a radio that you can’t turn off. Or...” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “A very small child.”

Damn, Jean thinks to himself. If he’d known that Kim was this fucking hilarious before, he’d have asked the other man to join him for a smoke ages ago.

“That’s exactly why I call him ‘shitkid’,” he says, finally warming up to the conversation. “The C-Wing’s just one giant babysitting service, if you ask me.”

Kim taps the ash off his stick, “To be fair, he seems to have grown up a bit. He doesn’t cry as often, and he’s actually wearing decent clothes now.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Sure, he’s doing that _now_ , but mark my words, Kitsuragi. He’ll be wearing that dragon kimono of his to work again before the month’s out.”

“Really? I was putting my money on the frog visor,” Kim says without missing a beat.

“Nothing’s stopping him from wearing them together.”

They silently contemplate that mental image for a moment.

“Anyway,” Jean says, before his eyes start melting in their sockets, “You seem to be getting along pretty well with the shitkid.”

“Well enough,” Kim says.

Jean waits for him to elaborate.

But after a few seconds, it becomes apparent that Kim thought that was a perfectly acceptable answer already, so Jean grudgingly lets their conversation die a sudden death.

A companionable silence settles between them as they stare out at the city and smoke together in silence: Jean leaning against the railing with his elbows resting on the cool, rusty metal; Kim seated on the fourth step of the emergency staircase with one leg pulled to his chest and the other stretched out before him. As usual, the view’s absolutely fucking majestic—the last sunlight of the day glints off the Eastern Lake, turning it into a perfect mirror-image of the burning sky above it. Beyond the lake, the skyscrapers of Grand Couron shimmer like bastions of glass, and if Jean squints, he can almost make out the hills of the Old South in the distance, with their green flanks covered in lilac and scarlet patches of wildflowers...

In the good ol’ days, he and Harry would spent entire afternoons on this very staircase, trading barbs or ideas about their cases while leisurely working through a whole pack of cigarettes. As their partnership began to crumble, Jean found himself coming out here alone more and more often, and sometimes, he’d be so stressed that he’d end up smoking a whole pack on his own.

While Jean continues his trip down Depressing Memory Lane, he notices Kim glancing at him furtively from the corner of his eye. His colleague seemed to be waiting for the right moment to ask him something, so Jean figures that he might as well give his colleague a hand.

“Something on your mind, Kitsuragi?”

If Kim’s startled by Jean’s question, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he plucks his cigarette from his lips and looks down at the floor in silent deliberation...

“He was worried about you,” Kim says eventually.

Jean frowns.

“What?”

“He was worried about you.” Kim repeats, looking up to meet Jean’s eyes. “He thought that you looked sad today—”

“He should mind his own fucking business,” Jean snaps.

Then, his horrified brain catches up with his sharp tongue, and Jean beats himself up for being such a reactive ass.

_Nice work, Vic. Go ahead. Keep on pushing away the people who care about you, ‘cause you’re just **so** good at that. _

He winces. “Sorry, Kim. I—” 

Kim shakes his head. “No offense taken, Satellite Officer.” Then, he adds, “You must have a lot on your mind.”

There it is again, Jean thinks. Another simple, yet weighty statement, just like that offered cigarette—A polite excuse for Jean’s behavior? An expression of understanding? Or maybe, just maybe...

A subtle invitation.

Jean considers it for a moment.

Meanwhile, Kim smokes in silence and gazes at their beautiful, broken city with an air of infinite patience.

If he’d been stuck here with anyone else, Jean would’ve just finished his smoke and trudged back to his office, still simmering in his own guilt and self-loathing. But as it turns out, he’s stuck here with Kim—steady, no-nonsense Kim who manages to put up with Harry’s craziness while still being able to get an impressive amount of shit done; who keeps his personal life kept so tightly under wraps that even after three months of working with him, Jean still barely knew anything about the man; who walks past the water cooler while his colleagues swap the latest gossip around it; who conveniently just happened to be at the emergency exit at the same time as Jean, when Jean knows for a fact that Kim usually has his daily cigarette at night, after work...

Given all of this, Jean’s tempted to think that this is a goddamned set-up to get him to talk about his fucking _feelings_. 

...Which, surprisingly, doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

With his nerves thrumming with anxiety, Jean breathes in a deep lungful of smoke and slowly breathes out.

“He’s never been very good at minding his own business," he mutters.

Kim’s lips quirk around his cigarette. “No, he hasn’t.”

Jean flicks ash off his stick. “Are you?”

Kim stays quiet for a few seconds.

Then, he stubs out his cigarette on the sole of his boot.

“Most of the time,” he says, glancing up meaningfully at Jean.

_Last chance to bail, Satellite Officer_ , Kim seems to be saying.

And since Jean’s a stubborn bastard who never bails out of anything, he finally decides to bite the bullet.

“You wanna hear a sob story, Kitsuragi?”

A small smile plays on Kim’s face. “Only if you want to tell me one, Vicquemare.”

Jean fidgets with his cigarette.

Then, he turns around and starts to tell Kim a sob story. 


	3. The Pincer Attack

**YOU** – It’s 17:00, and you’ve barely crossed the threshold of the Hog's Head when Trant dishes out his first serving of trivia.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “What a fascinating little bar.” He looks around with an appreciative eye. “It reminds me of the tavern described in ‘The Pilgrim’s Path’, a collection of short stories penned by Sir Gremold Barristen during the Dark Ages of Sur-la-Clef—”

 **CONCEPTUALIZATION** – Sir Barristen must have come up with a pretty depressing tavern if it looked like the Hog’s Head.

 **PERCEPTION** – The bar’s ambience is best described as “vintage dungeon.” Not only is it below street-level, but its grimy brick walls are also lined with some wicked-looking metal weapons, most of which are covered in a suspicious, rust-like substance...

 **LOGIC** [Legendary: Failure] – You’ve asked the bar owner, Oleg Svenson, about the weapons before, but he just muttered something about “family heirlooms” and “the blood of our enemies,” which passed through your alcohol-soaked brain and came out as, “absolutely harmless.”

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “—the twenty one pilgrims eventually managed to reach the tavern before the storm hit, and—”

His eyes land on the spiked iron mace that’s hanging beside the door.

 **COMPOSURE** [Easy: Success] – He looks like a little child who just saw a shiny toy, not a grown man looking at a cursed medieval weapon.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Harry, look! This appears to be a genuine Mirovian morning star...”

 **REACTION SPEED** [Formidable: Success] – With the reflexes of a panicked parent, you grab Trant’s hand before it lands on the mace.

 **YOU** – “Come on, pal. Let’s go get our drinks, eh?” You quickly start shepherding him towards the bar before he spots another deadly implement of historic importance.

**THE HOG’S HEAD** – Located at the corner of 56th Street and 3rd Avenue, the Hog’s Head is a hole-in-the-wall that’s best known for serving the coldest Pale Ale in Jamrock and hosting the first, and only, themed brawl-nights in the entirety of Revachol.

 **RHETORIC** – Oleg’s an avid believer of the saying, “If you can’t beat them, then let them beat each other up at a regular schedule. Oh, and make them pay extra for it too.”

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** – Mondays and Wednesdays are good ol’ Bareknuckle Brawls, where everyone beats up each other with—you guessed it, bare roasted pig knuckles.

 **LOGIC** – Everyone wanted to use their bare fists at first, but Oleg pointed out that fighting makes you really hungry, so you might as well hit two birds with one stone.

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** – Tuesdays and Thursdays are Bottle Brawls—because sometimes, you just need to smash a bottle of beer against your neighbor’s skull to get all that negative energy out of your system.

 **SAVOIR FAIRE** – Fridays are Dance Brawls, which take the word “breakdancing” to a whole new level.

 **RHETORIC** – And Saturdays and Sundays are No-Brawls, where everyone can sit back, relax, and enjoy civilized conversations with the people that they’ve knocked out with a pig knuckle, a bottle, or a wicked windmill over the past week.

**PERCEPTION** – It’s still pretty early, so you and Trant practically have the whole place to yourselves right now.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – As soon as you plop down onto the wooden stools that line the bar, Trant redirects his scholarly attention to the wall of drinks behind the counter. “They certainly have an impressive selection of spirits to choose from. I do believe I see a bottle of ’07 Navorre White hiding behind a Teolsa Malt on the bottom shelf—quite a rare vintage, especially here in Revachol. It originates from Messina, you see, and—”

 **YOU** – You let Trant’s soothing tsunami of trivia washes over your eardrums while you survey the alcohol-lined shelves and try to find something that you recognize...

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** – Your old pal Commodore Red’s winking at you from the second to the top shelf, Harry-boy. He misses the good ol’ days, when it was just the two of you against the world. He wonders if you’ve forgotten about him, because he sure as hell hasn’t forgotten about you...

**OLEG SVENSON** – “Drinks?”

 **COMPOSURE** [Heroic: Failure] – _Holy shit—_

 **SAVOIR FAIRE** [Challenging: Failure] – You spring up from your chair. 

**PAIN THRESHOLD** [Heroic: Failure] - Thankfully, the concrete floor catches your fall.

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Are you alright, Harry?”

 **PAIN THRESHOLD** [Formidable: Success] – Pretty sure you just crushed your tailbone, but it wasn't very useful anyway.

 **REACTION SPEED** [Legendary: Failure] – How the hell does Oleg do that???

 **CONCEPTUALIZATION** [Challenging: Success] – Oleg moves like the sun—no one sees it moving across the sky, but before you know it, it’s glowering down at you and asking for your drinks. 

**OLEG SVENSON** \- Standing at an impressive 195 cm, Oleg Svenson towers over his little kingdom of booze like a sentient brick wall, complete with its very own graffiti, which are inked on the bulging arms that are perpetually crossed over his massive chest.

 **CONCEPTUALIZATION** [Formidable: Success] – Oleg’s tattoos are a pastiche of both traditional and postmodern blackwork. A raring stallion gallops through the expanse of his right forearm, while a fanged viper twists its sinewy coils around his left. Together, these images convey a sense of indomitable strength and vicious cunning, an effect that’s only slightly marred by the giant, pink heart with “I LUV JENNY” scrawled in fancy cursive script on his right bicep.

 **VOLITION** [Heroic: Success] – You’ve been dying to know who Jenny is—a girlfriend? A wife? A daughter? A pet cat?—but you’ve successfully kept the question to yourself.

 **HALF-LIGHT** [Easy: Success] - Because you want to keep all your teeth in your mouth.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Trivial: Success] – Because you want the cheap booze to keep coming

**SAVOIR FAIRE** [Medium: Success] – Scrambling back up to your chair, you flash a winning smile at Oleg. 

**YOU** – “Two beers for me and my friend here, Oleg.”

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** – You sure you didn’t mean, “Two beers for me?”

 **VOLITION** [Challenging: Success] – Yes, you’re sure.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – He smiles at Oleg too. “Actually, would you happen to have some Oranjese craft beer, my good man? Maybe Guilm _é_ r, or possibly Boergräd.”

 **SUGGESTION** – You might want to tell Trant that this isn’t the kind of place that serves _fancy_ alcohol...

 **HALF-LIGHT** [Medium: Success] – And that Oleg isn’t exactly a good man.

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** – Fancy alcohol’s for stuck-up prigs! This here’s _real_ booze, the kind that burns your throat and cauterizes your liver for just 2.00 reál!

 **RHETORIC** – Yeah, the Hog House ain’t a place for bourgeois sissies! This here’s a working-man’s bar, where the proletariat can march in and shout for a beer without worrying about whether they’re pronouncing its name right!

**OLEG SVENSON** – He shrugs. “Yeah. Got Guilm _é_ r.”

 **YOU** \- Your jaw drops to the floor.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – Meanwhile, his smile brightens by around ten-thousand kilowatts. “Excellent! Make it two bottles, if you can. Oh, and by the way, did you get the name of your bar from the hogshead casks that Ubi farmers use to mature their signature whiskey—”

 **REACTION SPEED** [Heroic: Success] – You smack your palm over Trant’s mouth.

 **OLEG SVENSON** – He already has that dazed look in his eyes that most people get after getting hit by one of Trant’s fact fusillades.

 **HALF-LIGHT** [Formidable: Success] – This just might be the worst possible match-up in history—a man of few words versus a man of fifteen words per second. 

**YOU** – “Sorry about my pal here, Oleg. He—”

 **OLEG SVENSON** – But before you can finish apologizing, Oleg rears up to his full height and glares down at you and Trant.

 **HALF-LIGHT** [Easy: Success] – This is it, you’re going to _die_ —

 **OLEG SVENSON** – His fleshy mouth splits open to reveal a glistening wall of teeth—

**COMPOSURE** [Formidable: Success] – It takes you a few seconds to realize that Oleg’s actually _smiling_.

 **OLEG SVENSON** \- “That’s right.”

 **PERCEPTION (HEARING)** [Legendary: Failure] – Come again?

**OLEG SVENSON** \- “No one’s ever figured that out before.” He settles down and crosses his arms again. “Everyone thinks it’s named after a pig’s head.”

 **RHETORIC** – That may have been the longest sentence that you’ve ever heard him say.

 **ENCYCLOPEDIA** [Heroic: Failure] – For the record, you totally knew knew about those casks. You just...forgot about them, that’s all.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Sadly, it’s an easy misconception to make, Mr. Oleg. The only reason I was able to identify the reference is because I read a book on Ubi customs and traditions a few years ago—but I digress. It’s truly a pleasure to be here at your a wonderful establishment.”

 **DRAMA** [Easy: Success] – The special consultant somehow meant every word, sire.

 **PERCEPTION (SIGHT)** [Challenging: Success] – You take a quick look around Oleg’s wonderful establishment and spot at least four cobwebs on the ceiling and six cockroaches scurrying around on the floor.

 **EMPATHY** – Trant’s goodness is infectious—Everyone and everything that he comes into contact with becomes just as wonderful and fascinating as he perceives it to be. Case in point...

**OLEG SVENSON** – “I like you,” he rumbles at Trant. “Drinks’re on the house tonight.”

 **YOU** – Your jaw drops to the floor again.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Are you sure, Mr. Oleg? I wouldn’t want to impose—”

 **OLEG SVENSON** \- Oleg pats him lightly on the shoulder.

 **PAIN THRESHOLD** [Medium: Success] – Ouch. That’s gotta hurt.

 **OLEG SVENSON** – “Don’t mention it, Officer. Lemme go get those Guilmérs.”

He trudges away to the back of the bar like a receding glacier.

**YOU** – “You okay there, buddy?”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – Wincing, he rubs his shoulder and gives you a pained smile. “Mr. Oleg is...very strong, isn’t he?” 

**PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** – He has no idea. Remember that time when Oleg gave someone a handshake?

 **PAIN THRESHOLD** [Medium: Success] – It was _awful_. You still have nightmares about it.

**YOU** – “You bet. You’re lucky he only gave you a pat on the back.”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Consider me relieved. Though to be honest, it didn’t hurt as much as— ” 

He suddenly clams up.

 **COMPOSURE** [Formidable: Success] – Uh oh. Somebody just said something that they weren’t supposed to.

**OLEG **SVENSON** **– But before you can ask Trant about what he was about to say, Oleg rematerializes in front of you with two sweating bottles of Guilm _é_ r Stout in his paws.

 **REACTION SPEED** [Legendary: Failure] – Holy hell, someone should really put a bell on this guy!

 **OLEG** **SVENSON** – “Enjoy,” he mutters, plopping the bottles on the counter.

 **PERCEPTION** \- He even threw in a little platter of those crunchy peanuts that you love so much. 

**ELECTROCHEMISTRY** \- That's it. Trant's coming with you to the Hog's Head from now on!

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Thank you, Mr. Oleg. We truly appreciate your generosity.” He glances at you.

 **COMPOSURE** [Easy: Success] – _“Say thank you to the nice bartender, Harry,”_ that look says.

 **HALF-LIGHT** – For what??? Scaring the shit out of you???

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** – No, for giving you _free drinks_ , you ungrateful sod.

**YOU** – You raise your bottle in salute. “Thanks a lot, Oleg.”

 **OLEG SVENSON** – Having reached his spoken-word limit for the day, he just grunts in reply.

 **RHETORIC** [Medium: Success] – That grunt somehow conveyed several things at once: “You’re welcome,” “Glad to be of service,” and, “The working classes must rise up against their capitalist masters,” to name a few.

 **OLEG SVENSON** – With the uncanny sensitivity that all bartenders have towards human suffering, Oleg gravitates to the other end of the bar so that you and Trant can mope in peace.

**YOU** \- Mope? But I don't have anything to mope about—

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Medium: Success] – Once upon a time, the entire Violent Crimes Division of Precinct 41 would march off to watering holes like the Hog’s Head for a few rounds of beer and several rounds of karaoke every Friday night. Laughter would ring out over the tables, which were covered in beer bottles and packs of cigarettes. Jokes were traded, banter flew back and forth, complaints were yelled, and joyful camaraderie filled the air.

Those were the good days, the happy days—when Jean didn’t always have a scowl on his face, and Trant didn’t always look so worn out.

 **YOU** – What happened to those days?

 **PAIN THRESHOLD** [Legendary: Failure] – You did.

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – Before you can mope about this awful realization, Trant tilts his bottle towards you. “Shall we have a toast, Detective?”

 **COMPOSURE** [Formidable: Success] – His smile is genuine, but his eyes are despondent and weary.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** – That’s the face of someone who badly needs a drink...

Lucky for him, you need a drink just as badly as he does!

**YOU** – “Sure, Trant. What should we toast to?”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “What about..." He briefly scrunches his eyebrows together. "Ah! I know: 'To those who’ve seen us at our best, and seen us at our worst, and put up with us all the same.”

 **RHETORIC** [Trivial: Success] – Ouch. That one hit too close to home.

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Trivial: Success] – Several people come to your mind, but one of them stands out from the rest.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** – It’s barely been an hour since you last saw each other, and you miss him already.

 **EMPATHY** – You’re one lucky bastard, Harrier Du Bois.

Don’t you ever forget that.

**YOU** – You clink your bottle against Trant’s. “Couldn’t have put it better myself. Cheers.”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Cheers!”

 **YOU** – You take your first swig of your beer.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Legendary: Success] – I wish I could give you some elaborate, flowery description of how this beer tastes like, but all I can say is _HOLY FUCKING SHIT_ —

 **CONCEPTUALIZATION** [Medium: Success] – Here, let me try: The finest fruits of the earth, kissed by the sun's rays and watered by gentle, autumn rains, distilled into a bottle of liquid ambrosia... 

**PERCEPTION** [Formidable: Success] –You’ve never tasted anything like it—A thirst-quenching, citrusy bitterness mixed with a rich, bready malt and a splash of coriander.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Legendary: Success] – Great work guys. Now, excuse me while I go and sob in the corner while hugging this precious bottle of joy to my chest.

 **VOLITION** [Heroic: Success] – On the one hand, you really do sob and hug the precious bottle of joy to your chest. On the other, you manage to do so while staying firmly planted on your chair, so this still counts as an over-all win for your self-control.

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – He puts down his beer with a happy sigh.

“Excellent, isn’t it? This drink is made from barley harvested from the Yeruga Steppes in Northern Cappadocia and Lindenberry hops grown in the Miltus Valley, which are fermented together for at least three months in oak-lined casks to produce its singular taste.”

 **ENCYCLOPEDIA** – You never cease to be amazed by how the staggering amount of information that he has stored between his ears.

 **EMPATHY** – And the childlike enthusiasm with which he delivers it.

**YOU** – “This is literally the best beer I’ve ever had in my life, Trant. Thanks for the introduction.”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Don’t mention it, Harry. It’s the least I could do to thank you for agreeing to take on Jean’s case.”

 **LOGIC** [Formidable: Failure] – Case? What case?

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Formidable: Success] – At this very moment, Lt. Kim Kitsuragi is standing at the 5th floor emergency exit with Satellite Officer Vicquemare, who’s getting ready to confess his unforgivable sin to the lieutenant...

 **LOGIC** – Oh, _that_ case.

**DRAMA** [Heroic: Success] – Your face becomes a mask of rapt attention.

 **YOU** – “Of course. The case. About Jean.”

 **SUGGESTION** [Challenging: Failure] – You might as well have said, “I’m sitting. On a chair. Right now.”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – If he noticed your lapse of memory, he’s kind enough not to show it.

“I’m really grateful for this chance to be able to speak about it with someone. It's been...difficult trying to make sense of things on my own."

 **EMPATHY** [Easy: Success] - He's been thinking about it all day---no wonder he looks tired. 

**YOU** – “Did something happen between you and Jean, Trant?”

 **PERCEPTION (SIGHT)** [Medium: Success] – A shadow passes over his face.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- “Before I narrate what happened, it might be best if I showed you something first, Harry."

He pauses to throw a few glances over his shoulder. 

**HALF-LIGHT** [Easy: Success] – This is shady as hell. Bet he’s going to pull out a knife out of his pocket. 

**ELECTROCHEMISTRY** – Or drugs! (Please let it be drugs.)

 **YOU** – Shut it, you two. Trant’s not that kind of person.

 **HALF-LIGHT** [Easy: Success] – You sure about that?

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – Once the coast is clear, he untucks his shirt and lifts it up— 

**COMPOSURE** [Legendary: Failure] – Your eyes bulge out of their sockets.

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** [Trivial: Success] - Turns out Walking Encyclopedia's got a _wicked_ six-pack.

 **REACTION SPEED** [Legendary: Failure] – You should probably stop Trant from exposing his majestic abs to the whole wide world, but you’re too busy ogling him yourself to do anything about it.

 **VOLITION** [Legendary: Success] - No! You’ve already sworn your heart to Kim!!!!!! Look away, look away!!!

**YOU** – But before you can tear your eyes away from Trant’s abs, your blood runs cold.

 **PERCEPTION (SIGHT)** – There, right in the middle of his surprisingly well-sculpted diaphragm, is a gigantic, ugly bruise that’s roughly twice the size of your fist. The edges of it are a dark, mottled purple, while its center is a splotchy mess of red, brown, and pink.

 **VISUAL CALCULUS** [Formidable: Success] – An extensive abdominal hematoma. Judging from those colors, it can’t be more than a day old.

 **LOGIC** [Trivial: Success] – After Oleg gave him that pat on the shoulder, Trant said that it didn't hurt as much as something else...

Namely, this.

**YOU** – “What the hell happened to you, Trant?”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – He carefully tucks in his shirt again. "No need to be alarmed, Harry. I had Dr. Gottlieb examine it again today, and he confirmed that the damage is mostly superficial. Although,” he winces, “it would be best if I avoided laughing for the next month or so.”

 **CONCEPTUALIZATION** [Easy: Success] – Trant not being allowed to laugh for a month is like a flower not being allowed to bloom in spring. Or a dog not being allowed to wag its tail.

 **RHETORIC** [Formidable: Success] – Did you hear that? He said that he got Dr. Gottlieb to examine his bruise “again.”

 **LOGIC** [Medium: Success] – Think about it: If it's true that the injury's only a day old, and he got the lazareth to check it before today, then...

**YOU** – “You got this bruise yesterday at the precinct, didn’t you?”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – His eyes sparkle with admiration.

 **LOGIC** – Bingo.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “I’m relieved to see that you’ve retained your impressive skills of deduction, lieutenant yefreitor.”

 **LOGIC** [Challenging: Success] – But your impressive skills of deduction still can't figure out how this is related to Jean's case.

...Unless...

**YOU** – No.

No, that’s impossible.

**ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Trivial: Success] – Satellite Officer Vicquemare has always had a penchant for rage and violence, yes, but he would never, _ever_ let it out on any of you.

Especially not on Trant.

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – A tinge of sadness taints his smile. "Ah, I see that you’ve managed to connect the dots."

 **COMPOSURE** [Legendary: Failure] – You almost fall off your chair again.

 **YOU** – “Trant. You...you can’t be serious—”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “It was my fault," he insists. "He didn’t mean to do it.”

 **RHETORIC** [Easy: Success] - You know exactly who "he" is.

 **PAIN THRESHOLD** [Heroic: Failure] - But you wish, with all your heart, that you didn't.

**EMPATHY** [Medium: Success] – Moved by his misery, you touch his shoulder.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** – In a totally platonic way, of course.

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** – Man, his deltoids are _really_ firm—

 **VOLITION** [Legendary: Success] – His eyes are up here, pal.

**YOU** – “It’s okay, Trant. Just tell me what happened.”

 **SAVOIR FAIRE** [Challenging: Success] – You manage to let go of his shoulder with a minimal amount of awkwardness.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – He gives you a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Harry. I’ll try recount what happened as objectively as I can.”

 **RHETORIC** – Someone who already talks like a walking textbook shouldn't have much trouble being objective about this.

 **LOGIC** [Challenging: Success] - No one's immune to being compromised—not even a walking textbook. 

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “As you know, Jean and I have the habit of working out together at the precinct gym after work on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Heroic: Failure] - You actually didn't know that.

 **LOGIC** [Medium: Success] – But you probably did, three months ago. 

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “He’s been teaching me some basic boxing moves over the past few weeks, so I asked him if we could have a friendly spar, just to mix up our routine a little.”

* * *

“Being the fucking idiot that I was, I said, ‘Yeah, why not,’” Jean mutters while absently rolling his cigarette between his fingers. “We weren’t the only ones at the gym that time, by the way. Nick Feuerbach and Tony Cullion were there too, along with a few other officers from the A-Wing.”

Kim’s been at the 41st long enough to recognize those names, but he doesn’t know any of them personally.

“So you had an audience," he says.

“Not really." Jean shrugs. "It wasn’t the first time that Trant and I sparred with each other—”

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “—We’ve often engaged in some freestyle grappling, just to ensure that our hand-to-hand combat skills remained in optimal condition. I’ve been meaning to introduce Jean to Lomantang stick fighting for the longest time, but the precinct’s formidable backlog of cases has made it almost impossible for us to associate with each other beyond our work obligations.”

 **COMPOSURE** [Easy: Success] – There’s a wistfulness in his eyes. A hint of longing...

 **EMPATHY** [Medium: Success] – Few things will make him happier than being able to spend time with Jean outside of work.

 **LOGIC** [Legendary: Failure] - But why would anyone want to hang out with a grumpy bastard like Jean during their free time?

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “But I digress. Going back to what happened yesterday...”

* * *

“We started off with a few warm-up rounds. Nothing serious—Just a few jabs here and there. Easy enough to block and dodge, with the right footwork." Jean grins. "Trant didn’t have any trouble keeping up with me at all." 

It's hard to imagine Trant Heidelstam—cheerful, kind, and good-natured Mr. Heidelstam—duking it out with Jean in hand-to-hand combat, but Kim isn't surprised to find out about the special consultant's pastime. Being in the RCM was stressful, to say the least, and everyone needed an outlet for all the shit that the city threw at them. Some cops let it out on themselves, wallowing in drugs and alcohol until the pain went away. Some of them—the true bastards, in Kim’s opinion—let it out on the innocent people that they were supposed to protect.

Apparently, Trant and Jean let it out on each other yesterday.

And, judging from how they were this morning, it didn't end well. 

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Once we were both warmed up, we decided that it was time to start fighting seriously.”

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** [Medium: Success] – Trant might look like a nerdy bookworm, but he’s no pushover. 

**YOU** – You can see it happening: Jean and Trant circling each other like a pair of big cats, sizing up the competition and getting ready to pounce— 

**HALF-LIGHT** – The tension must’ve been unbearable!

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Heroic: Success] – Yeah. The _tension_.

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** [Challenging: Failure] – Once upon a time, you had the body and the moves to give either Jean or Trant a run for their money. Back then, your flabs were abs, and your muscles weren't sagging off your bones. Now, you’re just a middle-aged has-been who can barely climb a flight of stairs without having to stop for a breather halfway.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** – It’s not so bad! Sure, Jean and Trant might be buff as heck, but they don’t get to drink two bottles of Commodore Red a night, or eat enough shawarma to clog up their arteries!

 **HALF-LIGHT -** They probably won’t die young too.

 **LOGIC** [Easy: Success] - Something tells you that they don't really feel bad about missing out on all of that.

* * *

“The rules were simple: Whoever gets in three hits first, wins.” Jean raises his fingers for emphasis. “Either that, or victory by knock-out. Pretty sure we were both steering away from that one, though.”

He pauses to take a drag of his cigarette.

“Not that it did us any good, in the end," he mutters.

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “The first three rounds went well enough. Jean won the first, while I won the second and the third out of sheer luck—”

 **DRAMA** [Medium: Success] – Modesty suits him well, but he most certainly did not win those rounds by luck.

 **YOU** – How did he get through Jean’s defense?

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** – Probably blinded Jean with a smile first before punching his lights out.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- “But as our session continued, I couldn't help but notice that Jean was, shall we say....pulling his punches during our fight." 

* * *

“So there I was, getting my ass kicked by Trant and wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into,” Jean says, “When all of a sudden, he marches up to me after round three and tells me to stop holding out on him."

Something in his tone tells Kim that Jean must have been pretty startled when Trant did that. But there's something else in Jean's voice too—amusement, and even a bit of pride, as if he was actually pleased that Trant called him out on his bullshit...

“Can I ask you something, Satellite Officer?” Kim asks. 

“Go ahead.”

“Were you really holding out on him?”

“Are you kidding me?" Jean snorts. "Of course I was.”

* * *

**PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** – That’s totally unfair! Jean's never taken it easy on _you_.

 **PAIN THRESHOLD** [Formidable: Success] – Because he knew you can take it.

 **EMPATHY** [Easy: Success] – And also because he’s absolutely _had it_ with your crap. 

**PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** – But Trant can take his punches better than you. So why the hell would he hold back during their fight?

* * *

“Look," Jean says, "it's not that I thought that Trant wouldn’t be able to take it. He’s one of the toughest bastards that I know." He sighs. "It's just that..."

Kim lends him a hand. 

"You held back," he says gently, "because you didn't want to hurt him."

Jean falls silent.

Then, he nods.

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – “Vic finally agreed to take our fight seriously after my complaint. Still, I believe that he did it more out of the kindness of his heart rather than any real desire to win the match.” He smiles fondly. “It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time that he conceded to a request of mine that he didn’t fully agree with.”

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Medium: Success] - Back in Martinaise, Mr. Heidelstam was instrumental in convincing Lt. Vicquemare to give you another chance, despite the Satellite Officer's personal misgivings towards you.

 **EMPATHY** \- Trant's always had a way with people. It's practically impossible to deny him anything—just look at Oleg.

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Medium: Success] - But somehow, Jean seems particularly susceptible to Trant's influence...

 **LOGIC** [Legendary: Failure] - A niggling feeling starts to form at the back of your mind. A shapeless suspicion. A burgeoning insight...

But it's still too vague for you to make sense of it right now.

* * *

Suddenly, the scattered pieces of the case slot together in Kim's mind—the sparring session, Jean's fear of hurting Trant, the tension between them this morning...

"How did it happen?" he asks quietly.

Instead of answering at once, Jean closes his eyes and sucks on his cigarette one last time before flicking it away.

"Fourth round started." He breathes out a mouthful of smoke. "And even if I told Trant that I wouldn't hold back, I had no fucking intention of actually doing that."

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "When the fourth round started, I immediately sensed that Jean had no intention of following our agreement. Consequently, I...ah, decided to take matters into my own hands."

 **HALF-LIGHT** [Easy: Success] - Uh oh. That can't be good. 

**EMPATHY** [Easy: Success] - You kind of feel sorry for Jean right now.

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** [Heroic: Success] - But you also would've paid real money to watch him get creamed by a rampaging Trant.

* * *

"You should've seen him, Kim," Jean says, his voice brimming with pride. "He was relentless. His punches came so fast that I could barely keep up. Tried to get in a few of my own, but he just swatted them away and kept coming at me—”

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "I managed to back him into a corner, and I'd already gotten two hits in. But just as I was about to land my third—"

* * *

"I hit him."

Jean pauses.

"I hit him," he says again, "with everything that I got." 

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "He got me right here." He points to his bruised abdomen. "An uppercut, right in my solar plexus."

 **ENCYCLOPEDIA** [Challenging: Success] - Also known as the celiac plexus, the solar plexus is a bundle of nerves located near the bottom of the sternum, right in front of the aorta. 

**VISUAL CALCULUS** [Challenging: Success] - A direct hit would have caused the diaphragm to spasm, making it very, very difficult to breathe.

 **PAIN THRESHOLD** [Easy: Success] - It would've hurt like a fucking _bitch_. 

**VISUAL CALCULUS** [Challenging: Success] - If it didn't knock him out cold.

* * *

Jean's expression becomes haunted.

"He collapsed. I tried to wake him up, but..." 

He shoves his hands into his pockets, but it's too late— 

Kim already saw how badly they were trembling.

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "The next thing I knew, I was lying in a cot in Dr. Gottlieb's clinic with a pack of ice pressed against my diaphragm and absolutely no recollection of how I got there." 

**COMPOSURE** [Medium: Success] - For as long as you've known him, Trant has always had a smile on his face. Often, happy; sometimes, pained; and rarely sad. 

This is the first time that you've ever seen him without it.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "Detective Feuerbach was sitting at my bedside when I woke up, and he told me that—" 

**REACTION SPEED** [Easy: Success] - Wait a minute. _Feuerbach_ was the one who stayed with Trant?!

 **YOU** \- "Hold on. Jean wasn't there when you woke up?"

 **EMPATHY** [Easy: Success] - An unbearable sadness descends upon him.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "No. He wasn't."

* * *

"Ask me what I did, Kim."

Kim frowns. "What?"

"Ask me what I did," Jean says, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. "After I brought Trant to the lazareth."

Baffled, Kim tries to read the expression on Jean's face to figure out what he's thinking... 

But he might as well have been staring at a blank wall.

"Alright, Satellite Officer. I'll bite," he sighs. "What did you do after that?"

A mirthless grin breaks out on Jean's face.

"I turned tail," he says, "and fucking left him there."

* * *

**YOU** \- You can't believe what you just heard.

"What do you mean he wasn't there?"

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "Vic wasn't in the lazareth's office when I woke up," he says mournfully. "According to Detective Feuerbach, Vic left as soon as Dr. Gottlieb told them that my condition was stable, and that I would regain consciousness soon."

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Legendary: Success] - The Jean that you know would have parked himself beside Trant's cot. He would have burned a trail through the rug as he paced back and forth like a distraught parent, utterly enraged with himself for what he'd just done. Then, as soon as Trant woke up, Jean would have been there in a flash, worrying over him and apologizing profusely while Trant tried to reassure him that everything was alright, that there was no real harm done...

But Jean did none of that.

Instead, the moment Trant opened his eyes, he was greeted by pain, then confusion. 

**EMPATHY** [Challenging: Success] - They've stayed with him ever since.

* * *

Kim can't believe what he just heard.

"You what?"

"I left," Jean says again. "I turned tail. I ran away. I didn't even wait for him to wake up. I just—" 

He cuts off, and for a moment, Kim worries that his colleague might actually punch himself out of anger and frustration— 

But instead, Jean just clenches his jaw and releases a shuddering breath.

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "I've been meaning to ask him about it. As soon as I got home, I tried calling him up at his apartment, but he didn't pick up. Then I saw him this morning at the precinct lobby, and—"

 **YOU** \- "—and he ignored you."

 **COMPOSURE** [Easy: Success] - You didn't think it was possible for him to look even sadder, but he does. 

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "Yes. Exactly."

* * *

A single question resounds through Kim's mind: 

_Why did you do that, Jean?_

But then he realizes that if Jean knew the answer, then they wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place. 

* * *

**PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** \- You want to march up to Jean and punch him in the face for doing this to Trant.

 **EMPATHY** [Godly: Failure] - But before you do that, you should throttle him by the neck and ask him why the hell he did it.

 **PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** [Heroic: Success] - You grip your bottle so hard it almost cracks. 

**YOU** \- "I'm...I'm sorry that he did that to you, Trant."

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- He chuckles—a small, sad sound that breaks your heart.

"I wish I could say that it's alright, Harry. But to be honest, it's been...very difficult."

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Formidable: Success] - It's been a long, long time since he's been tempted by the devil.

But he came very close to giving into it again last night. 

* * *

"May I speak freely, Satellite Officer?" 

Jean shrugs. "I've been speaking freely for the past thirty minutes, Lieutenant, so go ahead."

Mentally crossing his fingers, Kim delivers his first salvo. "I have a hard time picturing Mr. Heidalstam holding a grudge against you," he says.

Jean huffs a quiet laugh. "You and me both."

"In fact," Kim adds tentatively, "I'd say that he's probably just as hurt and confused as you are about what happened..."

He recalls the look on Trant's face when Jean slammed his door on them this morning.

"...If not more so."

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "I've been turning it over in my head since last night, and I have yet to come up with a plausible hypothesis for Jean's behavior..."

 **EMPATHY** \- It's just like Trant to cope with something by analyzing it to death.

 **PERCEPTION (SIGHT)** [Challenging: Success] - Those dark circles under his eyes testify to that.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "It's embarrassing really," he chuckles. "Here I am, offering my services to the RCM as a consultant for the cognitive sciences, and yet I'm utterly unable to comprehend what one of my closest friends is thinking."

* * *

Jean winces. "You think I don't know that? I've been meaning to talk to him today, but every time I tried, I just ran away like a fucking coward again."

Kim frowns. If Jean isn't worried about Trant being angry at him, then what's stopping him from going up to Trant and apologizing for what happened?

_Come on, Kim. What would Harry have said?_

For a moment, Kim reflects on how low he's fallen if he's starting to think like his disco disaster of a partner.

Then, he throws all caution into the wind and says something that Harry would have said.

* * *

**YOU** \- As Trant stares morosely at his beer, you try to figure out what could have been going through Jean's mind yesterday. 

**EMPATHY** [Heroic: Success] - A flurry of images and sensations flood your awareness—the bright, victorious smile on Trant's face as he swoops in for that last punch; the blast of adrenaline that surges through your veins; that swift, terrible moment when your fist lashes out and buries itself into Trant's abdomen— 

It's all too much to bear.

 **YOU** \- And that's when you finally understand why Jean ran away.

* * *

"You're not running away from Trant, Vicquemare," Kim says gently. "You're running away from yourself."

Jean jerks his head back as if he just got slapped in the face, which Kim supposes really did happen, only he slapped Jean with the truth, not with his hand— 

_Okay. You can stop channeling Harry now_.

"You held back during the fight because you wanted to protect him. You knew that if you went all-out, there was a big chance that you'd injure him somehow."

* * *

**YOU** \- "Knowing Jean, he's probably beating himself up black and blue for what he did to you yesterday, Trant."

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "What?! But this isn't his fault. I was the one who literally pushed him into a corner and forced his hand. I was the one who asked to spar with him in the first place. I..."

 **COMPOSURE** [Medium: Success] - His jaw tightens. 

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "I'm the one responsible for this. Not Vic."

* * *

When Jean doesn't respond, Kim takes that as a sign that he can continue.

"Then the accident happened—"

"You're being too nice, Kitsuragi," Jean mutters. "I punched his lights out. I _hurt_ him."

"You didn't mean to, though," Kim points out. "But when you did, it just confirmed your worst fear."

Scowling, Jean crosses his arms. "And what, pray tell, would that be, o wise one?"

Kim ignores the jab and deals the killing blow.

"That you were someone who could hurt him. Badly." 

* * *

**YOU** \- "Neither of you were at fault, Trant. It was an accident."

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- He doesn't meet your eyes. 

**COMPOSURE** [Medium: Success] - Looks like Jean doesn't have the monopoly on being a stubborn bastard.

 **YOU** \- "Jean never wanted to hurt you—that was the last thing he wanted to do."

 **COMPOSURE** [Challenging: Success] - His eyes soften.

 **SUGGESTION** [Challenging: Success] - Go on; you're getting through to him. 

**YOU** \- "So when he saw you hurt like that, because of something that _he_ did—It must have been too much for him to take." 

* * *

In the deafening silence descends between them, Kim wonders if he went too far. Maybe he's read this all wrong. Maybe he's fallen into that old, annoying habit of dispensing wisdom to people who never asked for it in the first place. Maybe— 

"You're right."

Kim blinks.

"Pardon?" 

"You're right," Jean says bitterly. "I've been staying away from him because I didn't want to hurt him again..."

He looks away.

"But I just ended up hurting him more, didn't I?" 

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "So what you're saying...is that Vic's been avoiding me because he's overwhelmed by what happened?

 **YOU** \- "It might be that," you acknowledge. "Or it might be that he's too ashamed to face you after what he's done. Whatever it is, it's bothering him so much that he's withdrawing from everyone." 

**COMPOSURE** [Challenging: Success] - Comprehension dawns on his face, but it's quickly followed by a strange expression...

 **EMPATHY** [Formidable: Success] - Worry. Compassion. Eagerness. Determination. 

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "I want to help him, Harry."

 **COMPOSURE** [Easy: Success] - His shoulders sag.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "But I don't know how."

* * *

Before Jean can descend into another bout of self-loathing, Kim uses his trump card.

"Mr. Heidelstam asked me to investigate why you were so miserable today," he says.

Jean frowns. "He what?" 

"He asked me to investigate why you were so miserable today," Kim repeats. "Because he wanted to know how he could cheer you up."

It was true---Trant _did_ ask Kim to take on the case, and Trant did want to find out how they could boost Jean's spirits. 

...Though it might be best if Jean didn't find out about the rest of the squad's involvement. Or that Harry was talking to Trant right now. At a bar.

* * *

**LOGIC** [Legendary: Failure] - Bad news: You don't know how to help Jean either.

 **YOU** \- What???!!! I can't just leave Trant hanging like this!!!

 **EMPATHY** \- Even if you can't help Jean, you can still help Trant feel better. 

**ELECTROCHEMISTRY** \- With alcohol! Lots and lots and _lots_ of alcohol.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- He sighs and stares off into space.

"I'd just baked a batch of lemon bars recently too," he murmurs. "It looks like I'll have to give them to Mikael's classmates instead—"

 **YOU** \- Your ears perk up.

"Wait. You made lemon squares? For Vic?"

* * *

"Let me get this straight," Jean says. "Trant asked you to figure out why I was sad. So he could..."

He trails off, so Kim helpfully finishes his sentence for him.

"Cheer you up. Yes, that's right."

For a moment, Jean just gapes at him. 

Then, like a crack appearing on the surface of a frozen lake, he smiles.

"What a fucking idiot," Jean mutters fondly.

* * *

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- He looks taken aback, as if he was surprised that he actually said that out loud.

 **COMPOSURE** [Formidable: Success] - A warm flush creeps onto his cheeks.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Medium: Success] - And you're pretty sure it's not just from the beer...

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "No! I...uh. I made them for everyone! Including yourself, of course!"

 **DRAMA** [Easy: Success] - The special consultant is a very intelligent man, sire, but he's a terrible liar.

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Medium: Success] - Satellite Officer Vicquemare has a notorious sweet tooth. He can demolish an entire pint of ice cream all by himself, given enough stress and/or emotional constipation.

And it just so happens that lemon squares are his favorite pastries...

* * *

When he sees Jean's smile, Kim almost sags against the stairs out of relief. He's always found it hard to talk about feelings, so his talk with Jean—while fruitful—had been absolutely _exhausting_.

"So are you going to talk to him?" he asks, tempering the hope in his voice.

"Of course I am." Jean grins. "After all, I don't want to deprive you of that additional notch in your ledger, Lieutenant."

Kim smiles. Now this was the snarky Jean that they all knew and sometimes loved.

* * *

**SAVOIR FAIRE** [Heroic: Success] - Those lemon bars don't have to go to waste, you know?

 **LOGIC** [Medium: Success] - In your mind, the stirrings of an idea start to take shape...

 **YOU** \- "Hey, Trant. I think you can still give those lemon bars to Jean."

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- He gives you a puzzled frown. "Sorry, Harry. I fail to see how that will help with the situation..."

 **SUGGESTION** [Easy: Success]- As you eagerly explain your idea to Trant, his expression morphs from skepticism to hope.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "Why, that's an excellent idea, lieutenant yefreitor! You're absolutely right—Vic needs time to come to terms with what happened, and the best thing that I could do is to respect his boundaries until he's ready to speak to me about it.

 **RHETORIC** [Formidable: Success] - Basically, he's going to follow your advice and give Jean some space.

 **YOU** \- Thanks for the translation.

 **RHETORIC** \- You're welcome.

* * *

"Nice work figuring me out, Kitsuragi," Jean grins. "No wonder the shitkid likes you so much."

Kim blinks.

"Excuse me?"

"What? You don't know?" His colleague quirks an eyebrow. "The shitkid likes you, Kim. And I don't mean just as a friend, either."

* * *

**LOGIC** [Legendary: Success] - All of a sudden, everything comes together with startling clarity—Trant's desire to spend more time with Jean outside of work, his distress at Jean's misery, _the lemon squares_...

 **YOU** \- _Holy shit!!!!!!!_

 **COMPOSURE** [Heroic: Success] - Play it cool, friend. Just stay calm.

 **DRAMA** [Formidable: Success] - Even as your brain freak outs about your new realization, you cough into your fist and feign nonchalance. 

**YOU** \- "You...uh. You really like Jean, don't you, Trant?"

 **COMPOSURE** [Easy: Success] - His entire face glows red.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "Uh. Yes! Of course, I like Vic! He's...a very good person," he finishes lamely.

 **DRAMA** [Easy: Success] - That's only partially true, my liege.

 **EMPATHY** [Challenging: Success] - He's absolutely _smitten_ with Jean.

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Trivial: Success] - Just like how you're smitten with Kim!

 **COMPOSURE** [Godly: Failure] - Now it's your turn to glow red.

* * *

As Kim's ears heat up for the third time that day, he coughs into his fist and refutes Jean's completely absurd allegation.

"My relationship with the lieutenant double-yefreitor is purely professional—"

"Bullshit, Kitsuragi," Jean sniggers. "I was his goddamned partner for three years, so believe me when I say that the shitkid most definitely does _not_ want just a 'purely professional' relationship with you."

* * *

**YOU** \- Ignoring your burning face, you quickly shift your thoughts away from Kim and focus on Trant again.

 **"** You feeling better, Trant?"

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- His signature smile returns in all its glory. "Yes, I feel much better, Harry. I...I don't know how to thank you for helping me make sense of everything—" 

**PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT** [Easy: Success] - You heartily slap him on the back, which almost knocks him into the counter.

 **YOU** \- "Don't mention it, Trant! You've always had my back, so this is the least that I could do. And besides..."

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Trivial: Success] - You wink at him and tap your empty beer bottle. 

**YOU** \- "You got us free drinks already, so that makes us even."

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- He laughs—

 **COMPOSURE** \- Or at least, he started to, then he doubled over in agony.

 **PAIN THRESHOLD** [Legendary: Failure] - The lazareth wasn't kidding. He really shouldn't be laughing for a while.

 **YOU** \- You spend the next few minutes panicking over Trant and getting him an ice pack for his bruised abs.

* * *

Rather than giving Jean the satisfaction of seeing him flustered, Kim gives his colleague a taste of his own medicine.

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "Then I'm assuming that your relationship with Mr. Heidelstam is 'purely professional' as well?"

Jean narrows his eyes. 

"Watch it, Lieutenant. That's a fifty-foot drop into that alley right there, and while I'm grateful for the pep talk, I might just accidentally chuck you off the building."

Kim coolly returns his gaze. "I'd like to see you try, Satellite Officer." 

They glare at each other for a few seconds.

But in the end, it's Jean who cracks first.

* * *

**YOU** \- "Sorry about that, Trant."

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- He smiles at you and presses the cold bottle of Pale Ale that Oleg gave him against his diaphragm. "No harm done, Harry. That was a good laugh...Oh, by the way, would you want another beer for yourself?"

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** \- Yes!

 **VOLITION** [Heroic: Success] - No. Kim said that you can only have one beer tonight, remember?

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** \- What the hell??? He's not the boss of you!

 **ESPRIT DE CORPS** [Trivial: Success] - Suddenly, you have the uncanny feeling that Kim's glaring at the back of your head...

 **ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Godly: Failure] - Okay, fine! Just order the damned soda water already.

* * *

"Guess we both have our work cut out for us, huh?” Jean says when their laughter dies down.

“Speak for yourself," Kim replies. "I’m not worried about anything."

“Alright. So you won't mind if I tell Harry that you're not interested—”

Kim frowns. “What? No! I—”

He freezes when he sees the shit-eating grin on Jean's face.

“Fuck you, Vicquemare," he mutters.

As Kim flips him off, Jean's laughter rings out loud and clear through the quiet Revacholian evening. 

* * *

**YOU** \- As you cradle a glass of ice-cold soda water in your hands, a brilliant idea flashes through your mind.

 **"** Hey, Trant. Let's have another toast." 

**TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- "Why certainly, Harry! To what should we toast to this time?"

 **SAVOIR FAIRE** [Easy: Success] - You don't even have to think about it. 

**YOU** – You raise your glass in the air.

“To stubborn lieutenants,” you solemnly declaim, “and the idiots who love them.”

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** – He immediately stifles a wince. 

**COMPOSURE** [Medium: Success] - It hurts too much for him to laugh, but if he could, he'd be laughing up a storm right now.

 **TRANT HEIDELSTAM** \- “An excellent toast. Cheers!"

 **YOU** – "Cheers!"

You gulp down your drink. 

**ELECTROCHEMISTRY** [Trivial: Success] – And soda water’s never tasted sweeter than it does tonight.


	4. Case Closed

When Jean marches into the precinct the next day, he's a man on a mission.

“Morning, idiots,” he says as he strides past Torson and McLaine in the lobby. He doesn’t see the stunned looks on their faces, or hear the shrieks that erupt behind him when Mack accidentally mows down some secretaries who were gossiping in the hallway.

There’s a small crowd milling in front of the lifts, and since Jean doesn’t have the patience to wait for three fucking minutes, he heads for the stairs. He’s fit enough to climb all the way up to the fifth floor without any trouble, unlike a certain ex-partner of his who couldn't go up two flights of stairs without risking a heart attack. And besides, it’ll help him get rid of all this excess energy before he talks to Trant...

As Jean bounds up the stairs, he mentally rehearses the spiel that he prepared for today.

 _Hey, Trant_. _I’m sorry for everything_.

He flies past the second floor.

 _For punching you_. _For abandoning you. For ignoring you._

He zooms past a large number “3” on the stairwell.

_For hurting you._

He races up the fourth floor landing.

_I fucked up. I acted like a fucking coward, and you deserve so much better than that._

He jumps over the last two steps--

 _So go ahead_ —

And lands on the fifth floor.

_Hit me._

Barely winded from the climb, Jean straightens his suit and heads through the stairwell door. He knows that Trant will probably stare at him in horror after that last bit, but if Jean were in his place, he’d want some revenge on the bastard who hurt him so badly. Mercy and forgiveness are great on paper, but they’re shit when it comes to actually teaching a man a lesson.

Jean should know — He forgave Harry for three years, and where did that get them?

In goddamned fucking Martinaise, that’s where.

He passes by a few of his fellow officers along the way to the locker room, and if they gave him strange looks or sniggered behind his back, he pretends not to notice. They must’ve heard about what had happened between him and Trant, but he doesn’t give a fuck about them. As far as he’s concerned, Trant's the only person whose opinion he cares about right now, so everyone else can go and shove their heads up their hairy —

He skids to a halt.

There’s something in front of his locker.

Squinting, Jean tries to examine the object from afar. It looks like an ordinary blue shopping bag—the kind that you can buy at any department store in Jamrock. There’s a white envelope stuck on the bag, but he’s too far away to see if there’s anything written on it.

His first instinct is to call in the bomb squad. The RCM has a lot of enemies, and Jean’s sure that some of them have his name on their shit list. Still, they'd have to be pretty stupid to place a bomb here, of all places. This locker room’s full of detectives, and every single one of them is just as good—if not better—at the Jamrock Shuffle as he is. By now, that package must've been picked up, poked, prodded, peered into, sniffed, and—judging from how crumpled it looks—trampled by at least five other detectives, which means that the chances of it being a bomb are practically zero.

His second instinct is to look over his shoulder to see if anyone’s playing a prank on him. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone’s tried to do that, even though Jean’s made sure to punish everyone who dared to mess with him with a well-aimed knee to the gut. But the locker room looks completely deserted right now, so if this was a prank, then the perps didn’t stick around to see him fall for it.

_It could just be a normal gift, you know_ , a reasonable little voice says in the back of his mind.

 _Sure_ , Jean acknowledges. _But where would the fun in that be?_

He approaches his locker cautiously and swipes a long-handled broom that’s leaning against the wall. The shopping bag doesn’t seem to be making any weird ticking sounds, but it wouldn’t hurt to be extra careful...

Once he’s a few feet away from the package, Jean pokes it with the broom and leaps back.

It fails to explode.

He pokes it again.

Nothing happens.

He pokes it one more time, because why the hell not?

The shopping bag begins to exude a mild air of annoyance.

Slightly disappointed, Jean sets the broom aside and picks up the package. It’s surprisingly light in his arms, and there’s something written on the envelope...

“LT. JEAN VICQUEMARE”

He does a double-take.

That handwriting.

He _knows_ it.

There’s a long bench in front of his locker, and Jean sits down on it while he plucks off the envelope from the bag. Anyone else would have just used a gift tag that had “TO: Jean, From: ___” written on it, but not Trant. Judging from the thickness of the envelope, Jean guesses that Trant must have written a short thesis for him to read, complete with footnotes and a full-page bibliography. He’s read enough of Trant’s reports to know what to expect, so when he opens the flap and takes out the letter, Jean’s surprised to see that it’s only four pages long. To make things worse, he doesn’t spot a single footnote, header, or academic reference when he scans through it.

A shiver runs through Jean’s spine. This isn’t like Trant at all. Leaving a gift by his locker instead of giving it to him face-to-face, writing a short letter instead of a long one...

 _He’s angry at me_ , Jean realizes. _He hates me now. He’s giving me a gift to soften the blow._

In some distant part of his mind, Jean knows that he’s overreacting. He hasn’t even read the damn thing yet, and Trant wasn’t the kind of person who would hold a grudge against anyone.

But then again, he thinks, there could always be a first time for everything...

He looks down apprehensively at the sheaf of paper in his hands. A part of him doesn’t even want to read it. It’s the same part of him that made him leave Trant at the lazareth’s office last Monday, ignore Trant yesterday, and not want to tell Kim about what happened...

And since Jean absolutely fucking _hates_ that part of him right now, he gives it the one-fingered salute before plowing into Trant’s letter.

It only takes him five minutes to finish reading it, which Jean considers a personal record for shortest amount of time spent reading something written by Trant fucking Heidelstam. But during those five minutes, and in the span of four pages, Jean went through an emotional rollercoaster – anxiety, guilt, self-loathing, confusion, surprise, relief, wonder.

He stares at the letter and tries to process the gist of what he’s just read:

_I’m sorry for provoking you._

_I’m not angry at you at all._

_Take all the time you need._

_I’ll be right here if you need me._

_P.S. I made these for you yesterday. I hope they’re good._

Every single sentence brims with kindness and warmth, and the whole letter is so endearingly _Trant_ that Jean’s barely holding his shit together right now.

He runs his thumb over the signature at the bottom of the last page.

He sniffs.

Then, before anyone can walk in and see him tearing up in front of his locker, Jean carefully tucks the letter back into its envelope. He still has to open Trant’s gift, but if that “P.S.” is anything to go by, it probably contains some baked goods from the legendary Heidelstam kitchen...

His mouth starts to water.

He reaches into the shopping bag and brings out a red-lidded food container. To Jean’s immense relief, it looks tough enough to withstand getting trampled by a full-grown detective, so its precious contents are safe and sound.

He opens it.

If someone had entered the locker room right now, they would’ve seen a strange sight: Lieutenant Jean Vicquemare, one of the toughest, crankiest motherfuckers in the entire precinct, silently staring at an open box in his lap with a dazed look on his face. If they hung back and waited for a bit, they would’ve seen him reach into the box and take out a small, golden lemon square. And if they were really perceptive, they might have even noticed the slight tremble in his hand...

Luckily, no one enters the locker room for the next five minutes, so no one sees or hears Jean’s reaction when he bites into that lemon square.

An embarrassingly loud moan echoes through the room, and if Jean wasn’t so preoccupied with the burst of sunshine that just exploded in his mouth, he would’ve been mortified to find out that it came from him. He’s had plenty of lemon squares before, but none of them can hold a candle to this little piece of heaven: As soon as he sinks his teeth into it, the crisp shortbread crust gives way to a luscious lemon filling that gently overwhelms his palate with its tangy sweetness. He can _taste_ the lemon zest in this thing, and Jean can only imagine how long it took for Trant to make these last night...

"Fuck you, Trant," Jean mutters as he furiously nibbles on the lemon square while struggling to contain his tears. "Fuck you to hell and back, you wonderful bastard."

Once the lemon square's been demolished and his shit's been pulled together, Jean takes a moment to somberly contemplate the golden bounty in his hands.

 _I don’t deserve this_ , he thinks to himself. _I don’t deserve this gift._

No, he realizes. It’s not the gift that he doesn’t deserve.

It’s the giver.

After taking one last look at the precious pastries, Jean packs them away, dumps the rest of his things in his locker, and strides off to the C-Wing with the shopping bag swinging by his side and the taste of sunshine lingering in his mouth. 

* * *

Meanwhile, at a small desk in the C-Wing, Trant Heidelstam stifles a yawn.

He’s — what’s the term again? Ah, yes — “totally pooped out” from last night. It wasn’t Harry’s fault, though. They’d left the Hog’s Head before 9 PM, which was astonishing, given Harry’s history of loitering in bars until he got kicked out for yelling about the end of the world. But what was really stunning was that despite being offered free drinks, Harry only had one bottle of beer, which Trant wouldn't have thought possible if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.

He'd always been supportive of Harry's recovery, of course, but he has to admit that the odds were stacked against the man. Among the various types of substance addiction, alcoholism was the hardest one to kick, with only one out of ten alcoholics being to fully recover from it. And those chances became even slimmer for someone of Harry's age... 

That, and Trant's watched too many good people—a certain melancholic lieutenant, especially—suffer under Harry’s drunken rule to be fully confident in his ability to get his act together.

But after witnessing last night's miracle, Trant realizes—with no small amount of happiness—that there may be hope for Harrier Du Bois after all.

He arrived home in high spirits—not just because he had two bottles of excellent beer (he chuckles at his own pun), but also because he was excited to prepare Jean's gift. He still had some lemon squares tucked away in the fridge, but he'd never give two-day-old pastries to Vic. No—for what he had in mind, only a fresh batch would do.

And so, with the single-minded intensity that he normally reserved for his Lomantang stick regimen (which he had decided to skip last night), Trant spent the next hour whipping up a storm in his kitchen.

In hindsight, he considers himself lucky that Jean’s favorite pastry was so easy to make. He would’ve been in a pinch if it had been lemon meringue pie. Or macarons. Or — Dolores forbid, _a vanilla soufflé._

...Not that Trant would have minded making any of these. He’d have baked an entire three-tiered wedding cake, if that’s what it took to cheer Jean up.

As the lemon squares cooled on his kitchen counter, Trant decided to make the most out of his time by writing a letter to Jean. Normally, he'd have just typed it down on his Rehm Prefect radiocomputer and printed it out, but he opted for the more “traditional” route and wrote it by hand instead. This decision was backed up by sound research—Compared to their printed counterparts, handwritten letters were perceived to be more impactful and engaging by their recipients, and it also promoted more mindfulness and self-reflection on the part of the writer.

In fact, it promoted so much mindfulness and self-reflection in Trant that it took him two hours to come up with the first paragraph.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say — he knew exactly what he wanted to say. The problem was that he had _too much_ to say, and he didn’t want to upset Jean further by giving him a thirty-page handwritten letter. 

Still, he had a feeling that, regardless of its length, Jean would still have read the letter anyway. Sure, he'd have cussed Trant to an inch of his life afterwards, but he still would've taken the time to sit and read through it, just as he'd done with every single one of Trant's highly informative and extremely lengthy reports. 

The thought made Trant smile.

In his letter, he apologized to Jean for provoking him during their fight. He reassured Jean that he harbored no ill will in his heart, and that when–no, _if_ Jean ever felt the need to talk about it, then Trant would be right there, waiting for him with a smile on his face and maybe even a freshly baked batch of cookies in his hands. 

In the meantime, Trant was going to...how did Harry put it again?

“Give him space.”

Yes. That’s it.

He was going to give Jean space.

As much space as Jean needed.

And for however long as Jean needed it.

By the time Trant had finished writing the letter, his wastebasket was brimming with discarded drafts and the sun was already peeking over the horizon. His hand ached from all that writing, his back hurt from sitting up all night, and his eyes were so strained that he could barely read what he’d just written.

But he didn't have any time to spare. It was already 5:30, which meant that he only had two hours to get to the precinct before Jean arrived. The best thing to do, he decided, would be to leave the gift by Jean's locker and hope that no one would be mean enough to steal it.

Fueled by sheer adrenaline, Trant packed away the lemon squares, tucked the letter into an envelope, and zipped through his morning routine—breakfast, shower, shave, meditate, call his ex-wife, Anna, to greet Mikael good morning, fix his things, get into his car, then drive to the precinct. It was a miracle that he managed to arrive at the old silk mill without any incident. He hasn’t pulled an all-nighter in years, and he knew for a fact that driving while sleep-deprived was just as bad as driving under the influence...

He yawns again.

Research has shown that drivers who haven’t slept in 18 hours performed 50% slower in reaction-speed tests than drivers who had a blood alcohol content of 0.08%...

His eyes start to droop...

Was it 0.08%? he thinks drowsily, as his mind starts to enter NREM Stage 1 Sleep. The number must be lower than that, but he can’t really remember it right now...

He nods once.

Twice.

Thrice...

But before he can pitch forward onto his desk and doze off in the middle of his own trivia, a warm palm catches his forehead and gently pushes him back upright.

Blinking blearily, Trant looks over his shoulder. “Ah, sorry about that —” 

Jean frowns.

“You look like shit Trant,” he says.

Trant bolts up from his chair.

“Jean!" he exclaims.

...Or at least he tries to, because as soon as he stands up, a flash of pain rips through his abdomen and turns his exclamation into a pained groan. 

Jean quickly grips his arms to steady him. 

"Holy shit! You’re still fucking hurt, you idiot!”

 _Sudden movements and abdominal injuries don’t mix_ , Trant remembers as he leans against his desk and tries to breathe as shallowly as he can. 

“I’m alright.” He’s lying through his teeth of course, but the burning pain in his abdomen is nothing compared to the agony of seeing the distraught look on Jean's face. “It’s really not that bad—” 

“Bullshit,” Jean growls. “I know how hard I punched you, Heidelstam. We’re going to the lazareth’s _right now_.”

He starts to pull Trant away from his desk, but Trant stubbornly plants his feet.

“Vic." He reaches up to touch the hand on his arm. “I’m alright, really. I just got up too fast because I was glad to see you, that’s all.”

Apparently, honesty really is the best policy, because as soon he says that, Jean flushes and lets go of his arm.

“You’re not supposed to be glad to see me, you goddamned idiot.” Jean glares at him balefully. “You’re supposed to be angry at me.”

Trant smiles. He’ll never admit it to anyone, but he's always found Jean...cute. In the same way that a bristly hedgehog or a thorny cactus is cute—

But then again, this might just be the sleep deprivation talking.

“I’m not angry at you at all." Still smiling, he glances at the blue shopping bag in Jean’s hands. “I wouldn’t have made those for you if I was."

Jean colors again, and suddenly, Trant spots something on his face.

There, at the very corner of Jean's mouth— 

A smudge of white powder.

But before Trant can do something silly like brush off the powdered sugar from Jean’s lips, the door to the C-Wing bangs open.

“Hey, guys!” Chester McLaine hollers at the top of his lungs. “You won’t believe what—”

He freezes.

“Go on, McLaine.” Jean crosses his arms and glares at his subordinate. “Don’t keep us in suspense. What won’t we believe?”

Trant closes his eyes and silently offers up a secular prayer on behalf of his soon-to-be-deceased colleague. 

“Er,” Chester croaks, in a tone that strongly implies a desire for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. “I was gonna talk about — the weather! Yeah! You won’t believe how hot it is outside! Oh man, it’s like the _sun_ out there!”

Jean's eyebrow twitches.

"The weather," he repeats drily.

Chester gulps. "Y-Yeah. The...the weather."

To Trant's surprise, Jean actually looks like he's willing to accept the sergeant's pathetic excuse for...well, an excuse. But before Jean can say anything, Mack Torson lumbers through the door and unwittingly sabotages his partner’s chances of survival.

“What are you talking about, Chester?" he says. "You were gonna tell them about how the boss was back to being a snarky motherfucker."

The temperature in the C-Wing rises by around fifteen degrees.

Sensing the earth rumbling beneath his feet, Trant quickly places himself between Jean and the sergeants to shield them from the impending volcanic explosion. “Vic," he says with a placating smile. "Maybe we should continue our conversation somewhere more...private.”

In that tense moment, it occurs to Trant that if all else fails, he could always just pretend to collapse and force Jean to carry him to Dr. Gottlieb's office.

To everyone’s relief (but mostly Chester’s), Jean relents and nods at Trant. “Good idea. Let’s go to my office,” he says, throwing one last dirty look at Chester and Mack before striding away.

"Right behind you!" Trant glances back at the entrance. Chester's collapsed to the floor out of sheer relief, while Mack's prodding him with the toe of his shoe. 

_Crisis averted_ , he thinks to himself as he jogs after Jean. He knows that he should be nervous right now—Jean's probably not in a very forgiving mood after that little episode, and Trant's so tired that he might doze off in the middle of their conversation. 

But strangely enough, he doesn't feel nervous at all. Just...happy.

Exhausted, but happy.

After all, Jean's talking to him again. 

And since Jean's talking to him again, everything's all right now.

When the door of Jean's office shuts behind Trant, the C-Wing erupts in a flurry of activity.

“What the fuck were you thinking, McLaine?!” Harry hisses as he rushes over to Chester, who's still a human puddle on the floor. Meanwhile, Kim reluctantly leaves his unfinished report yet again to join his partner by the entrance. At this rate, he'll never get the damn thing done, he thinks with dismay.

“How was I supposed to know that he’d be here?” Chester groans. “I swear, guys. I saw my life flashing before my eyes—”

“Aw, come on, Chester,” Mack huffs. “We passed him in the lobby and saw him go up the stairs. Where else would he be?”

“I don’t know—the fucking john???” Sighing, Chester raises his hand and waves it around until Mack gets the hint and yanks him up from the floor. “But hey, if he’s talking to Trant again, that means you guys must’ve solved the case!”

“Of course we did!” Harry grins and throws an arm over Kim’s shoulder. “Kim and I are the ultimate case-solving duo!”

Acutely aware of the warm weight on his shoulders, Kim coughs into his fist and wills his ears to remain at body temperature. “We just talked to them. That’s all,” he says modestly.

Mack narrows his eyes. “How’d you manage to talk to Vic without getting killed?”

“Kim handled Jean,” Harry clarifies. “I might be crazy, but I’m not _that_ crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Kim says, patting the arm on his shoulder. “Eccentric and weird, yes. But not crazy.”

Chester lets out a low whistle. “You got some balls on you, Lieutenant! Then again, the boss wouldn’t dare hurt a hair on your head, or Mullen here would lose his fucking marbles again—Hey!” he yelps as he narrowly dodges the kick that Harry aims at his groin. “What??? It’s true!”

“Anyway!” Harry says, quickly changing the topic. “I’m pretty sure Trant and Vic are going to clear things up between them, so—” and Kim can’t believe what his partner says next, “—we should all get back to work now.”

Mack frowns. “What?”

Chester frowns. “What?”

Kim frowns. “What? I mean—Yes,” he says. “We should get back to work.”

He tries, and fails, to ignore the impish wink that Harry gives him.

“But I don’t want to work!” Chester whines like a petulant toddler. “I’d rather—”

He pauses.

“Uh oh.” Mack looks worried. “You’re getting one of those stupid ideas of yours again, aren’t you, McLaine?”

Chester nods. “Yep.”

Then, with an uncanny air of purpose, he marches off and swipes a drinking glass from a nearby desk. 

“What’s he doing?” Kim whispers to Harry.

“Something really, really fucking stupid, I bet,” Harry replies.

True enough, Chester performs yet another act of suicidal stupidity by crouching in front of Jean’s office, putting the glass against the wall, and pressing his ear against the glass...

Mack shakes his head. “And they say _I’m_ dense,” he mutters as he stalks over to his eavesdropping partner, presumably so he doesn’t have to die alone in this suicide mission.

Suddenly, Kim feels Harry’s arm slowly sliding away from his shoulder...

“Don’t even think about it."

“Think about what?”

Kim raises an eyebrow.

Harry winces. “Alright, you caught me. How’d you know I was thinking of joining them?”

“Telepathy." Kim glances at his watch. "Now, I think you mentioned something about getting back to work?”

As he and Harry make their way back to his desk, Kim runs through his to-do list. First, he has to finish that never-ending report. Second, he has to follow up with Acquisitions about the new notebook that he requested to replace his current one (which was almost out of pages). Third, he has to start brainstorming with Harry about THE DELUSIONAL BOIADERO case...

“By the way, Detective” he says, turning to look at his partner, “we need to—“

But Harry’s gone.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Kim looks at Jean’s office and spots his partner craning his ear towards Chester’s glass with a look of intense concentration on his face.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh.

* * *

Unaware of their small audience, Jean clears his throat and gets ready to deliver his spiel. He and Trant are seated across from each other in front of his desk, with the blue shopping bag resting on the floor between them like a peace offering.

_Alright, Vicquemare. It's now or never._

“Hey, Trant,” he begins. “I’m—" 

“Vic, wait,” Trant interjects, “Before we begin, I just wanted to mention that I’m extremely sleep deprived right now, so please don’t be offended if I start nodding off in the middle of our conversation.”

Jean peers at Trant's face. He wasn’t kidding when he said that Trant looked like shit—His skin’s pale, and there are dark bags under his eyes...

“How much sleep did you get last night?”

The special consultant chuckles. “Not much," he says, which Jean translates into, "Zero."

“Trant,” he says, aghast. “Please don’t tell me that you drove to work today while running on fumes, because that would be the absolute fucking _height_ of stupidity.”

“Of course not! I made sure to get a full tank before going home yesterday."

The smile on Trant's face could've powered a lightbulb, but it wilts under Jean's glare.

“Sorry. Not the best time to be a ‘smart-ass’” Trant makes air-quotes, “isn’t it?”

Despite his exasperation, Jean almost cracks a smile at that apology. “You’re an expert at a lot of things, Trant, but being a ‘smart-ass,’” he mimics Trant’s air quotes, “definitely isn’t one of them. I’m driving you home later—no discussion,” he says, cutting off his friend’s protest. “I’m not going to let you wrap yourself around a goddamned telephone pole just because you spent all night preparing a fucking gift for me.” 

Trant looks like he wants to object, but Jean scowls at him until he gives in.

“Alright. Thanks, Vic,” Trant says with an exhausted smile that makes Jean want to tuck him into the nearest bed _right now_ — 

Er. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Not literally.

Before his smart-ass mind can call him out on his bullshit, Jean redirects their conversation back to the main event. “Do you have anything else that you want to say, or can I start apologizing to you now?”

“Sorry, Jean. Just two more things—”

Jean sighs. At this rate, he’ll forget his spiel before he even gets the chance to deliver it.

“—First, the lemon squares. Did you like them?” Trant asks, his eyes glimmering with nervous hope.

“No, I hated them."

Trant’s face drops. “Oh.”

“I’m pulling your fucking leg, Heidelstam,” Jean grins. “Those lemon squares are the best that I’ve ever tasted in my short, sad life.” 

Trant perks up. “Really?” 

“Really. I’ve only had one so far, and I almost fucking _wept_ when I bit into it." Jean narrows his eyes. "You put speed into those damn things, didn't you?”

Trant raises his hands in mock surrender. “You caught me, Lieutenant. Yes, I sprinkled methamphetamines onto my lemon bars. Nothing like some illegal substances to give your baked goodies that special kick."

“Consider me addicted. I’ll waive your sentence if you bake me another batch of those things." Jean jerks his thumb towards the shopping bag. "Because they're absolutely fucking delicious."

"Of course! I’d be more than happy to bribe you with more pastries.” Suddenly, Trant's eyes light up, which Jean correctly interprets as the prelude to a volley of trivia. "On that note, did you know that lemon squares were also the favorite dessert of Queen Titania III of Messina? It's said that she--"

He cuts off when he senses Jean's impatience.

Jean crosses his arms and pretends to look disgruntled. "You said you wanted to say two things. That was the first, so what's the second?"

"Ah, yes." The special consultant's smile turns tentative. “Did you ah, read my letter?"

"Of course I did. I was shocked by how short it was," Jean admits. "No footnotes, too."

“I was tempted to make it longer," Trant confesses, "but I wanted to keep it brief so that you wouldn’t have a hard time reading it. I knew how...taxed you already were, given everything that happened." 

_Even after everything I’ve put him through_ , Jean thinks as he looks at the exhausted man in front of him, _he was still thinking about how to make things easier for me._

“I’m sorry, Trant,” he says, deciding that now's a good time as any to deliver his spiel.

Trant’s eyes soften. “Jean, I–”

Jean raises a hand to stop him. “Let me finish,” he says, not unkindly. “I shouldn’t have abandoned you at the lazareth’s. I shouldn’t have ignored you yesterday either. I should’ve manned up and stayed with you until you woke up, or until you decided to get rid of me–”

"Get rid of you? That's not very likely," Trant murmurs, fond.

Jean ignores him. “You deserve a better friend. Someone who won’t run away when shit hits the fan. Someone who’ll be just as kind to you as you are to them.”

That hadn’t been part of the script, he realizes. But that's fine, since he’d meant every fucking word anyway.

“I wasn’t that friend to you. But I want to be. If...” He swallows the lump in his throat. “If you’ll let me.”

There. He’s laid out all of his cards—well, except for one, Jean thinks, remembering that bit about asking Trant to hit him. But he’ll just have to wait for a good time to say that— 

“Vic.”

Jean flinches, unused to hearing his name said so kindly.

“You’re always so harsh on yourself, Vic," Trant sighs. "I've always found that difficult to deal with, especially since you’re easily one of the best people that I know." His eyes twinkle with mirth. "And I know a _lot_ of people.”

Jean scowls. "Cut the crap, Heidelstam," he mutters half-heartedly.

“I’m serious. You’ve practically held this division together all by yourself for the past three years. You constantly push yourself to the brink for the sake of the people around you. And," Trant holds up a finger for emphasis, "you held back during our fight because you didn’t want to hurt me.”

_But I ended up hurting you anyway_ , Jean wants to retort, but he bites his tongue and waits for Trant to finish.

“But knowing you, Jean-Heron Vicquemare," Trant says, daring to wield Jean's full name against him, "you’d rather believe that you’re a cold-hearted ‘bastard’”, he air-quotes again, “than acknowledge the truth of what I just said.”

“Damn right."

Trant studies him silently for a moment, and Jean stifles the urge to fidget under his gaze. He's frankly unnerved by how well Trant's been able to read him--unnerved...but kind of impressed, too. 

Eventually, Trant sighs and slumps back against his chair. “Okay, Vic. I know better than to force the issue,” he says wearily. “So tell me: What would make you feel like you’ve sufficiently atoned for your unforgivable crimes against me?”

It takes Jean a second to understand what Trant's asking him.

But when it finally sinks in, he realizes that this is the moment that he's been waiting for. 

“I’d tell you,” he says with a cheeky smirk, “but I’m not sure if you have the guts to do it.”

“Try me."

Jean hesitates. He’d expected Trant to backpedal like hell in the face of his challenge, not look at him straight in the eye and meet him head-on. Not that he's complaining--he fucking _loves it_ when Trant-goody-two-shoes-Heidelstam pushes back against him like this. 

“Alright then.” He stands up from his chair and juts his chin out. “Hit me.”

* * *

On the other side of the wall, Chester scowls and presses his ear against the glass some more.

“What’re they saying, McLaine?” Harry whispers.

“Did they kiss and make up already?” Mack mutters.

“Shhh!” Chester raises a finger to his lips. “Could’ve sworn the boss just told Trant to hit him, but that can’t be right...”

Harry frowns. “Yeah, that doesn't make any sense. Here, let’s swap places—”

“No way!” Chester cups his hand protectively over the glass that he swiped from someone's desk without their permission. “I was the one who got this idea, so I’m the one who gets to listen in on this!”

Mack sighs. “Alright, you two, cut it out –”

* * *

Just as Jean expected, Trant’s bravado vanishes into thin air.

“W-what?” the special consultant stammers.

“Hit me,” Jean repeats. “You asked what you needed to do to make me feel like I’ve atoned, right? Well,” he taps his belly, “you just have to hit me right here, Trant. Just like how I hit you.”

Deep inside of him, Jean knows that he’s asking too much of his friend. Hell, he’s probably traumatizing Trant all over again...

But he’s not backing down until he gets what he _deserves_ , dammit.

Unfortunately for Jean, he wasn’t able to consider the effects of extreme sleep deprivation on one’s ability to comprehend verbal input. According to a recent study from the University of Konigstein, sleep deprived individuals displayed significantly poorer linguistic comprehension than those who have had sufficient sleep. Not only that, they were also more prone to errors in auditory comprehension...

The practical meaning of all of this is that when Trant Heidelstam—who, by this time, had been awake for 30 hours and counting—heard Jean’s instruction, he heard it as a very similar phrase with a vastly different meaning.

* * *

“What’s going on here?”

Startled, Harry and Chester immediately stop squabbling over the glass and stand at attention. 

“Hey there, Jude!” Chester grins, quickly hiding the glass behind his back. “We’re just uh, waiting for Trant and the boss to finish their meeting!”

Judit Minot frowns at them in confusion, a steaming mug of coffee cradled in her hands. "Vic and Trant are talking to each other again?”

“Yeah!” Harry grins. “Kim and I managed to solve the case, so everything’s fine now! ...I think," he adds nervously.

“You solved the case?” Judit looks surprised. "Is that true, Lieutenant?” She turns to look at Kim, who's finally decided to join the group now that there's another sensible adult in the vicinity.

“Yes,” Kim nods. “Lt. Vicquemare and Special Consultant Heidelstam just had a...misunderstanding two days ago,” he says in a diplomatic tone. “Detective Du Bois and I spoke to them individually to clear things up.”

The Patrol Officer breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I knew we could count on you two." She smiles at them both. “Thanks for your help, Detectives.”

“Hey, Mack and I helped too, you know!” Chester exclaims.

“No, we didn’t,” Mack says, in another cruel act of betrayal. “We just stood around and gossiped about them yesterday, and now you’re eavesdropping on the boss—”

* * *

Trant turns red. “A-are you sure about this, Vic?”

Jean quirks an eyebrow. He gets why Trant would be nervous, but why's he blushing like a fucking tomato?

...Ah well. Doesn't matter as long as Trant mans up and gives him his just desserts.

“Yeah." He nods resolutely. "Give me your best shot.”

After hesitating for a few more seconds, Trant stands up and clears his throat. 

"Alright. I...er, haven't done this in a very long time, so I might be rusty."

That didn't make sense either, Jean thinks. Trant had just sparred with him two days ago, so why the hell would he be rusty?

Oblivious to Jean's confusion, Trant shakes out his arms and loosens his tie. 

"Okay, Vic," Trant says, with a resolute glint in his eyes. "Here I come."

He steps forward-- 

Jean braces himself for the punch---

But instead of socking him in the gut, Trant crowds into Jean's personal space until their faces are mere inches apart.

"You have some sugar on you, Vic," he murmurs.

Keeping his eyes locked onto Jean's stunned face, he brushes something off the corner of Jean's mouth...

Then, with deliberate slowness, Trant sticks out his tongue and licks off a smudge of sugar from his thumb.

* * *

“You're eavesdropping?” Judit frowns.

“Eavesdropping?!" Chester says, as if he were thoroughly distressed by the mere thought that someone would invade Jean’s privacy like that. “I don’t see anyone eavesdropping on the boss around here. Do you?” He glances at Mack and Harry.

“Nope, not at all,” Harry says, which earns him a fate worse than death—namely, a disappointed look from Kim.

“See, Jude? No one’s eavesdropping on the boss! We’re all just worried about—” Suddenly, Chester’s eyes zoom in on the coffee mug that Judit's holding. “Wait, isn’t that the boss’ mug?”

“Ah, yes. He asked me to make him some coffee when I saw him earlier---”

“How much sugar did he ask you to put in it?” Mack asks apprehensively.

“None." Judit smiles. "It looks like your intervention really worked, Detectives."

“Don’t mention it, Jude,” Harry smiles. “We’re just watching out for each other over here.” He shoots a meaningful wink at Kim, who coughs into his fist and looks away.

* * *

Jean's mouth goes dry.

He tries to say something, but since his brain's currently frying in its own juices, all he manages to come up with is, "Erm."

In the blink of an eye, Trant's smoulder disappears, only to be replaced by a nervous smile.

"So how did I do?" 

A part of Jean's brain goes back online.

“What?” he asks weakly.

“You told me to hit on you, right?” Trant says with a look of mild confusion. “Did I do well?”

Jean's capacity for language fails him once again. 

_An idiot_ , he realizes, as he stares at Trant's increasingly worried face. _I fell head-over-heels in love with a goddamned idiot._

"Uh," Trant starts to sweat bullets. "Vic? Did I do something wro--"

Before he can finish his sentence, Jean grabs his tie and yanks him forward for a bruising--

* * *

“Wait wait wait,” Chester says, “If that’s the boss’ coffee, then you’re gonna go inside there to give it to him, right?”

Judit blinks. “Er. Yes. Of course, I am,” she says, evidently wary of Chester’s intentions. “But if he’s talking to Trant right now, I should probably wait out here and let them finish—”

“No! This is perfect!” With the eagerness of a criminal mastermind, Chester starts to push Judit towards the door to Jean’s office. “Go inside, see how they’re doing, then tell us all about it!”

“Wait, you want me to spy on them???”

“Of course not! We just want you to discreetly observe their behavior and tell us about it when you come back out!”

“Which is basically spying,” Mack points out.

Kim and Harry exchange glances.

 _Whatever’s going to happen, we’re going to have no part in this,_ they silently agree with each other.

* * *

Jean pulls away from Trant with a ragged gasp.

“I told you to _hit me_ , you fucking idiot, not _hit on me!_ ” he growls against Trant's lips.

Trant stares back at Jean, looking utterly shell-shocked.

"Oh,” he says eloquently.

Then, his sleep-addled mind finally catches up to what Jean said.

“Wait. Why would you want me to _hit_ you???”

Jean sighs.

 _Truly an idiot_ , he thinks to himself. 

"Forget about it," he mutters, pressing his forehead against Trant's. "Let's fuck."

Once again, Trant shatters all of Jean's expectations by grinning mischievously.

"Okay."

* * *

“Okay, Jude," Chester says, parking Judit in front of the door. "We’re counting on you!”

With that, he scurries away and joins the rest of the squad, who have moved back to a safe distance away from Jean's office. 

Judit still doesn’t look very comfortable being an accomplice in this whole operation, but she straightens her uniform and takes a deep breath anyway.

“Alright, I’m going in."

Chester gives her a double thumbs-up.

Harry gives her a farewell salute.

Mack yawns.

Kim wonders what the hell he's doing here.

Gulping, Judit reaches out to knock on Jean's door-

* * *

What happens next takes Jean completely by surprise.

One moment, he's standing in the middle of his office with his forehead pressed against Trant's. The next thing he knows, he's being hoisted up and _slammed_ against the fucking wall—

* * *

THUMP!

Judit leaps back.

"What the--"

* * *

But before Jean's mind can register what's going on, Trant starts to ravage his mouth so thoroughly that he can only mewl and scrabble against the wall for purchase— 

* * *

THUMP!

Something crashes to the floor.

* * *

To Jean's surprise and utter dismay, Trant stops kissing him to look down at the ruined picture frame. 

"Sorry about that, Vic--" he pants.

But since Jean's too far gone to give a damn about property damage at this point, he pushes himself off the wall and swiftly flips them over.

"Shut the fuck up," he growls, yanking Trant's collar aside and latching onto his neck— 

* * *

A sharp groan pierces through the wall.

"Holy shit, that sounded like Trant!" Mack exclaims.

"The boss is killing him!!!" Chester yells, pulling on his hair in panic.

"Vic would never do that!" Judit says indignantly. 

Another thud shakes the wall, followed shortly by something that sounds suspiciously like a moan...

"Oh my god, that was the boss!" Chester wails.

"That's it, I'm going in!" Harry rolls up his sleeves and marches towards the door.

Propelled by the intuition about what Trant and Jean might be up to, Kim panics and jogs after Harry. "Detective, wait—" 

But before Harry reaches the door, it swings open to reveal—

"Ah, good morning, everyone!" 

Harry stops in his tracks. 

"...Trant?"

As they all gape at him in stunned silence, Trant Heidelstam smiles brightly, which would've been totally normal, except that he looks like he'd just been attacked by a wild animal. His hair’s ruffled, his tie’s askew, and the upper buttons of his shirt are gone, and there’s a suspicious red mark peeking out from the edge of his collar...

“It’s good to see you all here!" Trant chirps. "Ah, Vic just wanted me to deliver a message to Patrol Officer Minot—”

“I’m right here, Trant," Judit says with a worried frown. "Are...are you alright?”

“I’m wonderful, thank you!” Trant replies happily, and Kim notes how swollen his lips look. “Vic just wanted me to let you know that he’s cancelling his meetings for the rest of the morning.”

Judit's eyebrows shoot up. “All of them?”

"Not _all_ of them, you goddamned idiot!" Jean's voice yells from the depths of his office. "Just the one at—" 

“Yes,” Trant says firmly. “All of them.”

"Oh." Judit blinks. "Okay."

"Thank you! Oh, is that coffee?" Trant points to the mug in her hands.

"Er. Yes. It's for Vic---"

"Excellent!" To everyone's surprise, Trant takes the mug and takes two greedy gulps from it. "Ah, perfect. The caffeine should keep me going for the rest of the morning." He beams. "Thanks, Jude!"

"But that was for—"

"Get your ass back in here, Heidelstam!!!" Jean hollers.

“Ah, that’ll be my cue to go,” Trant says with a happy sigh. “Excuse me, everyone.”

Still clutching Jean's mug in his hands, Trant disappears back into the office and closes the door.

The sounds resume with a vengeance a few moments later.

“Nope! Not listening to this anymore! Nananananana!” Chester yells while closing his eyes and covering his ears.

Mack shudders. “It’s like hearing your parents making out.” Then, he adds. “Only both of them are your dads.”

“Okay, we get the idea, Mack,” Harry says, his face flushed bright red. “We should probably uh, give them some space.”

“Excellent idea,” Kim says.

“Sounds good,” Judit chimes in.

“Nanananananana,” Chester shouts.

Mack shrugs. “Okay.”

With that unanimous decision made, they quickly disperse and go back to their own desks before they hear more...enthusiastic sounds.

“I’d say we did a pretty good job,” Harry says when they get back to Kim’s desk.

“We might have done too good of a job, actually,” Kim mutters.

“At least they’re happy.”

Kim pauses, remembering the bright smile on Trant's face when he emerged from the door.

“Yes,” he concedes. “Yes, at least there’s that.”

With a look of complete innocence, Harry raises his right hand.

“Ace’s High?"

Kim smiles.

“Ace’s High."

But the moment his hand lands on Harry's, his partner captures it and refuses to let go.

"Gotcha," Harry grins, and Kim realizes that he should've seen this trap coming from a mile away.

"May I please have my hand back, Detective?" he asks calmly, even as his pulse starts to race. 

"Let's make a deal, Kim." Harry twines his fingers between Kim's own. "If I finish that case summary before lunch, I get to take you out to dinner this weekend." 

Kim ignores the twin fires on both sides of his head.

"And if you don't?"

Harry shrugs. "Then I move back to my desk and never bother you again."

Kim pretends to think about it.

Meanwhile, he stifles a shiver when Harry runs his thumb over his knuckles...

"If you don't finish the case summary before lunch," he says carefully, "you'll move back to your desk--"

Harry nods. "Yep."

"--but," Kim continues, "you still get to take me out to dinner this weekend."

Harry's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“...You’re kidding me.” He stares at Kim incredulously. “Right?”

Kim shrugs. “Well, if you’re not interested, then —”

“No! I’m interested! Very interested!” A wide, silly grin breaks out on Harry's face, and Kim has to exert a godly amount of self-control to stop himself from grinning too.

"You'd better make some space for me at your desk Lieutenant." Harry squeezes his hand. "Because that summary's going to get _done_."

Kim smiles and returns his squeeze. “I'm looking forward to it, Detective.”

The case summary gets done in no time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone! This fic serves as a happy commercial break from [Blackjack Boogie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23322985), as well as an opportunity for shameless wish-fulfillment ~~because I'm now Jean-Trant trash~~. We're going back to our regular programming starting next week, but do expect updates for that [Harry-Kim date-fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24435910) too. :)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is loosely based on the recent drama between the DE Twitter roleplay accounts (@TrantHeidelstam, @vicquemare, @ApocalypseCop, @KitsuragiKim). They're all excellent, so please check them out! :)


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